


Don’t Want to Live Forever

by Bruteaous



Category: DC Comics, Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: F/F, Maggie is a time travelling lesbian basically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2018-10-04 05:18:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 65,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10269113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bruteaous/pseuds/Bruteaous
Summary: AU. Maggie Sawyer was born in Nebraska in the 1896. Through a freak accident, Maggie becomes biologically immortal and lives through the Twentieth Century appearing perpetually in her mid-twenties. By the time she meets Alex Danvers, she’s lived 121 years, but nothing can quite compare to loving Alex.





	1. I loved her and it was the beginning of everything

**Author's Note:**

> This is as much a character study of Maggie as an Alex/Maggie romance. It gives her a background that I don’t necessarily wish she had in the series as it is, but as someone she could possibly be given a different world and a different set of rules. The story spans several chapters. Maggie will meet and love a few women before she gets to Alex- who we all know is her last and best love in every way. I took some liberties with history, predominantly that women soldiers were allowed to fight in both World Wars. Please leave a comment after reading and let me know if there is interest for this to continue.

_Blue Springs, Nebraska_

_February 1910_

 

“Keep up, Maggie or I’m going to beat you!” Eliza shouted behind her.

Maggie swung her arms faster at her sides and her shoes dug deeper into the slightly frosted earth of the road beneath her feet as her pace increased. The schoolhouse had just let out for the day and Eliza’s father and brothers were preparing to herd their cattle in for deworming in the early spring so they hadn’t been able to come into town to bring them home from school. There was a light dusting of frost on the ground, but not so much that Maggie and Eliza couldn’t race each other home safely. For most of the three mile stretch, Maggie kept pace with her best friend, her own darker hair flowing in the chill breeze next to Eliza’s blonde locks. Both of their builds were similar, both slim and relatively short in their homespun wool dresses, both the resolutely robust children of westward homesteaders.

Maggie and Eliza had been friends since they were old enough to speak. They’d shared everything from their first words to toys to one another’s secrets. Even now, as they raced along the road towards their families’ houses, the warm bursts of air exiting their lungs mingled together in the frigid atmosphere as they ran connecting them in yet another way.  Maggie’s shoulder brushed Eliza’s as she gained the advantage in the last few feet before they both stopped at the rail fence separating their families’ properties, bent over and panting.

“I win!” Maggie shouted, once she’d caught her breath.

Eliza straightened, her light blue almost grey eyes meeting Maggie’s dark brown ones and glinting mischievously.

“This time,” Eliza panted, grinning in a way that made Maggie’s stomach flip. “Next time, I’ll have you.”

“You’ll always have me, Lizzie.” Maggie said, feeling her heart beat faster in her chest, thumping loudly in her ears as her insides swelled with feeling for the other girl.

“And you’ll always have me,” Eliza smiled back with a carefree wink.

“Eliza, come in now! The table still needs to be set for dinner!” Eliza’s mother shouted from the steps of their house.

“Gotta run,” Eliza said, racing off in the direction of her home.

The other girl turned around and shot Maggie another brief dazzling smile once and, twirling dramatically, made to do her impression of a curtesy before her mother shouted again and Eliza leapt up giggling and disappeared into her house.

Maggie brought a hand up to her chest and leaned heavily back against the rail fence as she tried in vain to quiet the racing of her heart. Her increasing fondness for her best friend was growing harder and harder to ignore. Maggie tried to tell herself that it was the same type of love that all best friends should share for one another, a platonic love, but in her heart, Maggie knew it was more than that. It’d struck her one day while they were eating lunch on the benches behind the schoolhouse and the remainder of a molasses cake had stuck itself stubbornly to one corner of Eliza’s mouth after they’d finished.

 _I wish I could kiss that cake off from her lips_ , Maggie had thought then, _like a sweetheart would kiss her, but girl’s sweethearts are always boys aren’t they?_

Since that afternoon in November, Maggie had been haunted by her growing feelings for Eliza and the knowledge that they weren’t the type of feelings that she was allowed to have for another girl her own age, however, one large part of Maggie’s heart dared to hope against hope. If Maggie was feeling this way, then might Eliza too share her feelings? How could it be that love could be discovered by one heart and not felt by the other? When Eliza’s eyes met Maggie’s, she could imagine their shared love connecting them like an invisible length of twine and if that love were to be true—and Maggie knew that it was—then how could it ever be perceived as wrong? Maggie had never heard of such a romantic love between two women, but that didn’t matter to her. Her brother Dominic didn’t believe that it was a woman who first bicycled around the world, but just because he wouldn’t believe Maggie and had never heard of it firsthand didn’t mean that it wasn’t true.

 _I need to tell her_ , Maggie thought, shuddering slightly as a chill wind whipped her dark hair into her face and seemingly cut right through the solidness of her entire being. _What have I got to lose?_

After a few more minutes silently staring at the pinewood planks of Eliza’s house, Maggie climbed over the fence and scurried up the short hill to her own.

 

OOOOOOOO

 

Maggie’s mother had made beef, cabbage, and potato soup for dinner with soda biscuits. It was a common enough staple of their diet, but not so common that Maggie had grown tired of eating it. Even so, she found she had no stomach for food tonight. She and Dominic sat on one side of the table. Their father sat at the head and their mother served all of them, only sitting down at the end when everyone else had a bowl of hot soup and a few biscuits to themselves. They ate in silence for a while, taking more interest in the warm meal than in conversation among themselves until Maggie’s father noticed that she wasn’t eating.

“What’s wrong with you, girl?” He asked in that gritty straightforward voice Maggie had always feared even when she was too young to know what that voice meant.

“Nothing, Papa.” Maggie answered quietly.

“MmHm,” he hummed, patting down the tobacco into the pipe beside his bowl on the table.

He did this rhythmically every night until the tobacco had been packed as unyielding as clay in a pot, then he sat the pipe back up on the tabletop and stared down his nose at Maggie, dark eyes boring down into her own not with curiosity, but with a firmness that always made Maggie sit a little straighter in her seat.

“Why aren’t you eating?” He asked again.

Maggie looked down into the bowl of soup in front of her and picked up a piece of floating cabbage with her spoon then let it drop limply back into the murky liquid below. She could feel her entire family’s eyes on her at this point and it made Maggie want to curl up into a ball and hide. She’d never liked being the center of attention. It usually meant bad things.

“I’m talking to you girl.” Her father continued, only his voice had a darker edge to it.

“Maybe she’s just tired from studying all day at school.” Her mother interjected cheerfully. “Did you study hard today at school, Margaret?”

“I—” Maggie started, but was stopped from finishing by her father.

“What’s studying at school have to do with not eating the food you put in front of her?” Her father bellowed unnecessarily, “when I was her age there wasn’t even a schoolhouse in this town to go to! I worked with my father with the cows from sun up until sun down. School’s a waste of time for a girl if you ask me. She should be out learning how to look after a husband—”

“We had a test at school today.” Dominic piped in. When their father leveled an angry look at him for being interrupted, the boy’s dark eyes—so like his sister’s—dropped down to his soup. “Well, we did. A grammar test.”

“A grammar test? Oh that’s lovely! And how did you both do on the test?” Their mother asked, seemingly delighted to be spared another one of her husband’s rants about the world and how it was going to hell in a handbasket.

“We won’t find out until Monday after the teacher grades them.” Maggie said, before bringing a spoonful of soup up to her mouth. It was lukewarm now, but if the act of eating kept her father from being angry with her, she would gladly suffer a few mouthfuls.

“What do you need with grammar anyway? Can you eat grammar? Can you plow the fields with it?” Their father argued, pushing away his empty soup bowl and chewing a biscuit nosily as crumbs littered his off brown work shirt.

“Mrs. Kopchovsky says grammar is very useful.” Dominic said defiantly. “She says we need it to make sure we can articulate our thoughts and so as we don’t look like fools when we go off to University in big cities like Omaha.”

“And where does she think anyone around here is going to get money to send their children to university in Nebraska City? Waste of time and money, if you ask me. The stupid bitch.” Their father grumbled.

“Robbie! I won’t have language like that in front of the children,” their mother said, in her calm even voice.

“I’m going to check the locks on the barn doors.” Their father grumbled, standing up and stuffing his pipe into his pocket which left no question as to why he was actually leaving them. “Maybe when I come back, there’ll be a piece of raisin pie waiting for me instead of the contempt of my over-read wife and ungrateful children.”

The front door slammed and Maggie’s shoulders sagged in relief. Their mother stood, busying away their bowls and utensils. When Maggie finally raised her eyes from the tabletop some time later, her mother was standing between her and Dominic.

“Shall we have that pie now, dear?” Her mother asked, gently using one hand to brush Maggie’s bangs out of her eyes.

 

OOOOOOOO

 

They’d each eaten a slice of pie and been ushered up to their room to sleep. The second floor of the homestead only had two rooms. One their parents occupied and one that Maggie and Dominic had to share. Dominic had crawled into the bed on his side of the room and turned out his light almost immediately, but instead Maggie sat down at the desk in the middle of the room that they each used for schoolwork. She pulled out her composition book from one of the drawers and—after making sure that Dominic was indeed turned away from her—pulled out the Valentine’s Day card she’d picked up from the general store her grandparents owned with her mother earlier in the week. Josie Sawyer was a romantic at heart—one of the things Maggie had inherited from her—and she always insisted that her daughter participate in the Valentine’s Day festivities at her school, which usually involved bringing a card with an apple or a sweet cake a girl had baked to the boy of her choice.

Maggie had always avoided celebrating the holiday at school. Eliza would tease her about it, but the truth was that there was never a boy Maggie liked enough to waste the card on and, the cakes her mother made her bake, Maggie usually ate herself or gave to Mrs. Kopchovsky at the start of the day.

 _Not this year_ , Maggie thought as she looked at the card.

The back was blank and on the front was a picture of two angels against a blue sky with butterfly wings, painting a red heart on a golden easel. Beneath their feet, it simply said in scrolling script, “To My Valentine…” She hadn’t picked out the card, but if Eliza felt the same way about her, Maggie was sure the glittery tackiness wouldn’t matter. She opened the middle drawer, pulling out the Waterman fountain pen her brother had been given for Christmas. Dominic hadn’t used it yet so it was still wrapped in wax paper in its box. Maggie carefully unwrapped it and filled it with ink from a well on the desktop. When the painstaking process was done, Maggie closed the reservoir and turned the card over.

With a courage that was only in her heart, Maggie began to pour out her feelings.

 

OOOOOOO

 

The next day, Maggie waited for Eliza to come out of the schoolhouse. She’d carried the Valentine card to school with her in her mathematics book, but hadn’t been able to bring herself to give it to Eliza in person over the course of the day not even while her fellow classmates did so to their own valentines. Maggie had meant to, but every time Eliza looked at her with those perfect blue eyes or with the corner of her lips turned up mischievously in that charming way that made Maggie’s heart speed up and butterflies rise up in her stomach, she lost whatever bravery she’d hoped to have.

Finally, the lunch bell had wrung, Eliza had gone back into the building and Maggie had seen her chance. She’d stuffed the card in Eliza’s lunch pail and taken her seat again. When the lessons for the day were over, Maggie had grabbed her books and her wool overcoat and waited out in the schoolyard for Eliza to gather her things like usual…only Eliza hadn’t come out to meet her yet. Maggie waited ten minutes, then fifteen, then twenty, then twenty-five. Finally, as the sun began to go down, Maggie walked back inside the schoolhouse. All of the other students had already left, only Mrs. Kopchovsky remained, who was busy washing the chalk board. She looked up when she heard Maggie’s boots against the floorboards.

“Margaret, what are you still doing here?” the teacher asked, settling her hands on her hips, but not in a challenging way.

“I’m waiting for Lizzie, um, Eliza Wilke.” Maggie said, scuffing one of her feet against the floorboards nervously. “Do you know where she is?”

“She filed out with the other students, ahead of you I think.” Mrs. Kopchovsky said, wiping her hands on her skirt. “Maybe her mother needed her home early?”

“Maybe,” Maggie shrugged, not believing it for a second.

Eliza had always waited for her. Ever since they were little girls.

Maggie walked home that night alone for the first time that she could remember since she’d started school. The late winter cold that was usually kept mostly at bay by the sturdy woolen jacket her mother had bought her, seemed to burn its way through her clothes as if Maggie were naked. When she passed the Wilke’s homestead, lights were on beyond the curtains. She considered running up onto their front porch—the place where Eliza, Maggie, and Dominick would play Tiddlywinks on summer mornings after breakfast—knock on the door and ask for Eliza, but the cowardly part of her knew that wouldn’t be a good idea. If Eliza hadn’t waited for her, there had to be a reason.

Maybe she’d been too afraid to tell Maggie how she felt in person too? Maybe she’d gone home because she needed to collect her courage before she saw Maggie again? Maybe she hadn’t even read the card yet?

Maggie didn’t know. All she knew as the tears welled up in her eyes and pain flared in her chest was that her heart was breaking.

 

OOOOOOO

 

Friday night dinner was always a special occasion in the Sawyer household. Sunday dinner was still celebrated after church as with most families, but Maggie’s mother had come from a family that was a little more well off than the one she’d married into, a family that celebrated personal achievement with parties and small celebrations. So Josie had decreed that every Friday night dinner in the Sawyer household would be one in which her children could celebrate the end of all of their hard work during the school week and the beginning of the weekend. A roast was prepared with potatoes and carrots and onions. The heavenly smell spiraled up the stairs to Maggie and Dominic where they waited in their room, each occupying themselves in a different way. Dominic was reading an issue of _Boy’s Adventure World_ magazine and Maggie was doodling on the back cover of her composition booklet with a lead pencil. She doodled things that usually wouldn’t hold her interest: cartoon hearts with arrows shot through them, a crossword with hers and Eliza’s names fatefully intertwined…

That’s when the knock at the door came.

It was loud and insistent and repetitive and Maggie felt a sudden foreboding in her stomach. She could hear the sound of the front door as it opened and a man’s voice shouting.

“What in the world?” Dominic said, as the sound of shouting grew louder as another man’s voice joined it, undoubtedly their father’s.

They could hear certain words that travelled through the floors and walls easier than others. The words “daughter” and “pervert” carried easily to Maggie’s ears.

 _Oh, God…_ Maggie raced out of her seat and down the stairs like a shot.

“IS THIS HOW YOUR RASIING YOUR DAUGHTER?! TO BE A SICK UNNATURAL ANIMAL?!”

“What is this even about?” their mother asked, clearly confused.

“You Bastard, get the hell off my land!” their father bellowed belligerently from a chair in the corner.

Mr. Wilke took a deep breath and shoved a battered piece of colored paper into Josie Sawyer’s hands. Even from her awkward vantage point at the top of the staircase, Maggie recognized the Valentine’s Day card she’d left in Eliza’s lunch pail now in her mother’s hands. Icy fingers closed around Maggie’s heart and her throat began to tighten. Eliza didn’t love her and worse…she’d denounced Maggie to her parents.

“She’s 14!” Mr. Wilke said, shaking his finger at Maggie’s mother. “My daughter is 14 and you let that hussy of a daughter of yours corrupt her!”

Maggie’s view of the scene unfolding obscured as her eyes filled with tears. She’d known the Wilke’s her entire life. They were like a second family to her. The fact that Mr. Wilke was standing at their front door spewing insults about her hurt more than Maggie could have imagined it would. She didn’t know what burned hotter in her chest: anger at Eliza for betraying her, her shame for being unnatural, or her own humiliation for ever allowing herself to believe that anyone let alone a girl as beautiful as Eliza Wilke could love her back.

What had she expected would happen? An acceptance of love and a supervised outing with Eliza with her parents who would linger supportively in the wings? Family dinners where both of their parents would enthuse the virtues of their Sapphic daughters?

 _None of that would have happened_. _It was all just the fantasies of a girl so in love she went blind_ , Maggie told herself, her vision blurring with more tears as her mother turned the card over in her grip carefully and read the love note Maggie had written on the other side.

Maggie could hear the words she’d agonized over for hours ringing once again in her head as clear as they had been when she first settled on them:

 

_Dearest Lizzie,_

_I feel like a fool for even thinking to write this note to you or that any note I may write to you now could ever hold a candle to what I feel when our eyes meet over a school book or through a window pane.  One flash of your beautiful smile and I am yours. You are everything to me, Lizzie. I have spent and will gladly spend the rest of my life loving you as you deserve to be loved, but first things first._

_Be my sweetheart, Lizzie? Please be mine as I am yours._

_Love forever,_

_Maggie_

In that moment, Maggie felt like a spectator in the story of her own life, like she was somewhere outside of her body somewhere, floating above the conflict between her parents and Mr. Sawyer like a cloud and Maggie wanted nothing more than to float away, but the look of horror her mother shot her after reading the letter tethered her to the stairwell again.

Their father and Mr. Wilke scuffled lightly in the foyer before their father had Mr. Wilke by the collar of his work shirt and pushed him through the still open doorway.

“Get out and stay out!” their father shouted after him before slamming the door. Then he turned to his wife, “what was that madness all about, Josie?”

Their mother didn’t say anything. Instead, she stared down at the floor boards and clutched the card in her hands in a white knuckled grip. Finally, she found her voice again.

“Margaret Ellen Sawyer, come down here this instant.”

Maggie felt her feet carry her down the stairs. She felt more than heard her mother telling her father what she’d done. The intonations of his infuriated insults drowned out his actual words in her ears. Her wool jacket was shoved into her arms and before Maggie knew it she was being pushed out the door just like Mr. Wilke had been. The sound of the door shutting behind her was the loudest sound on the evening air. It followed Maggie like a shadow as she walked along the dirt roads in the waning sunlight. Trails of tears and snot froze on her face and just when she thought she was in so much pain she might die, her feet continued to carry her to a house on the edge of town.

And that was how Maggie Sawyer ended up on her Aunt Tilda’s doorstep.

* * *

_TBC..._

 


	2. A New Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to confess something. Tilda’s reaction as Maggie comes out to her may seem untimely for the early 1900s and that may be because it was the reaction I wish my mother would have had when I first came out to her in college. I wish I had had someone, anyone, who had been willing and able to tell me that what makes you different is what makes you wonderful, but eh, doesn’t everyone in the LGBTQA community? The quote Aunt Tilda uses is from Natalie Clifford Barney (1876-1972) who lived openly in Paris as a lesbian in the early 1900s and whose salons, I imagine Tilda being a frequent visitor at considering her background acting in the US and Europe. Please enjoy the read and leave a comment on your way out if you would like to see the story continue or with constructive criticism. Knowing people are enjoying this story gives me the motivation to continue.

**Trigger Warning:** This chapter has points that may be difficult to read or triggering for people who deal with anxiety and/or have been bullied in the past. There are two scenes, one where Maggie has a panic attack basically, and another where Maggie is bullied by her peers. If these scenes may be triggering for you, feel free to skip them. Your health is more important to me than you reading them if they may prove harmful to you in any way.

 

* * *

 

 Maggie’s Aunt Tilda lived in a bungalow on the edge of town that her grandparents had built when they’d founded the first general store in the area. She was, by all accounts, the most eccentric personage in Blue Springs, Nebraska. She’d lived most of her adult life in big cities around the country and abroad in Europe and had only returned to the small town where she was born after she’d been unable to continue her previous life for reasons known only to herself.

 Everyone in town had a story about Matilda Darling and Maggie had heard them all at one point or another as gossip repeated in hushed tones between her mother and grandparents. According to hearsay, Aunt Tilda once danced all night at a country club in St. Louis and posed for a photograph while swimming in the club fountain in nothing but her bloomers. She’d lived in so many places that no one knew the proper count. Rumor had it she’d had a torrid affair with young Alfie Vanderbilt and that she’d once put a cigarette out in a man’s face when he’d given her vaudeville performance a rude review. Rumor had it that she’d been the mistress of a great artist in Paris and had given birth to a child that hadn’t survived. Rumor also had it that she’d returned to Nebraska in disgrace though there could only be rampant speculation as to why.

 Whatever the truth of her life, Maggie hadn’t known what to expect from Aunt Tilda when she’d arrived on her doorstep, brokenhearted and alone, but Maggie’s aunt had taken one look at her and ushered her inside the house without first asking who she was or why she’d come. Maggie assumed her aunt must have recognized her.

 Maggie had always had the darker traits of her mother’s family and Matilda was her mother’s sister so maybe that had been the reason she’d been so accommodating to the girl. Either way, it had been a godsend to be brought in from the cold, wrapped in a crocheted blanket, and led over to a padded chair by the fireplace where she was handed a cup of steaming lavender tea.

 “So what’d you do?” Aunt Tilda asked quietly from the settee across from her, regarding Maggie up and down. “You look like you got into a fight and lost.”

 Maggie sat still, holding her tea cup in her hands almost reverently. It looked like real china—the kind that was worth more than everything in her parents’ entire house—and Maggie was afraid to drop it. So she clutched it a little tighter to herself and let the soothing warmth of the liquid within reheat her numb fingers.

 “I fell in love,” Maggie rasped out, feeling emotion swell in her sore throat and tears begin to sting the corners of her eyes all over again.

 “I take it your parents did not approve?”

 Maggie just nodded her head mutely.

 “Who was it?”

 “My best friend E—Eliza Wilk—e,” Maggie confessed through a sob.

 “A girl?” Tilda asked, tilting her head in surprise.

 Maggie just nodded again, letting new tears finally fall as she feared the worst. She lowered her eyes to the rug on the floor, praying to someone, anyone that she wouldn’t be thrown out again. Where would she go? How would she survive on her own? It was Nebraska in the dead of winter after all.

 “Well, you are full of surprises, aren’t you, Margaret?” Tilda said, chuckling and taking a sip of her own tea.

 “You’re not upset?” Maggie asked, confused and hopeful all at once.

 “Upset? Oh, pish posh,” Tilda scoffed before sipping her tea again. Then she put the china cup and saucer down carefully on the end table beside the settee and leaned slightly forward, resting her elbows on her knees in a very uncommon posture for a woman. “My good friend Natalie once said, ‘when you're in love you never really know whether your elation comes from the qualities of the one you love, or if it attributes them to her; whether the light which surrounds her like a halo comes from you, from her, or from the meeting of your sparks.’ She’s an avid lover of women in Paris, you know. A professed sapphist since the earliest age.”

 Maggie remained quiet, focusing on breathing and controlling the swell of complex emotions welling up in her chest. There were other women out there like her? She wasn’t really just some unnatural animal like Mr. Wilke had said?

 “You’re not alone, darling girl.” Tilda continued, reaching out and clasping Maggie’s hands between her own kindly. “Outside of this town in the great wide world, love takes all forms. Some women love men, yes, but men also love other men and women love other women. It is only small hearts and even smaller minds who choose to believe that love must have a sex or a color or even a bank account.”

 At the last remark, Maggie chuckled despite herself. The act helped relieve the pressure in Maggie’s chest a little and she found that she could breathe easier now. The way her Aunt Tilda was looking at her, full of warmth and acceptance made tears bloom in Maggie’s eyes for a whole different reason.

Relief.

 Maggie felt relieved for the first time since she’d slipped her Valentine’s card into Eliza’s lunch pail that afternoon and hoped for the best. It seemed like an almost foreign feeling in the wake of everything that had just happened to her.

 “Shakespeare said love is blind for a reason, Margaret.” Tilda went on casually, “there is no shame in following her wherever she may lead you.” Then she stood and brushed her hands on her skirt with a sense of finality. “Now that we have that settled, have you thought about where you’re going to go from here? Do you have a place to stay?”

 Maggie’s full heart sank just a fraction lower in her chest.

 “No—no,” she sputtered.

 Aunt Tilda nodded her head solemnly like she’d expected that.

 “You can stay with me for the time being. We’ll figure the rest out in due time. Follow me.”

 Aunt Tilda led her out of the sitting room through an archway and into a foyer that was larger than Maggie’s whole dining room, kitchen, and entrance way altogether. She couldn’t help staring in awe at the polished oak fittings separating the walls and the ceiling and, what was even more impressive, the walls weren’t painted. They were covered in a wallpaper pattern that looked like it had come out from the tail end of the last century and a girlish part of Maggie longed to stretch out her fingers and run them along the velvet green flowers inlaid over the golden background, but she restrained herself.

 At the back of the foyer was a staircase that curved so smoothly upwards that it might have been a snake arching its back. Tilda noticed the expression of awe on Maggie’s face and smiled as she led the way up the stairs.

 “My grandparents had lofty ambitions when they’d built this place. “ Aunt Tilda said. “They’d hoped this little settlement they’d poured their money into would rise up out of the dirt like St. Louis or Atlanta, but this squalid backwater town simply stopped developing at the turn of the century and has now begun to atrophy. Only the rodents maintain continuing delusions of grandeur in Blue Springs.”

 There were at least three doors peeking out of the hallway stemming from the landing at the top of the staircase from what Maggie could see. Two on the left and one on the right. One was probably Aunt Tilda’s room, but what were the other two? Aunt Tilda started walking again. She stopped by the second door on the left and twisted the brass handle, stepping into darkness for a moment. Maggie waited as an oil lamp was lit and the room was bathed in off yellow semi-illumination. The walls were paneled wood like the hallway they’d come down, simpler than the foyer downstairs and yet smarter than anywhere Maggie had ever slept in her life. Tilda set the lamp down on a long wooden vanity table with a mirror as tall as Maggie herself. There was an oak armoire with four drawers in one corner and in the center of the room was a large bed with an iron bedframe.

 “This will be your room for right now. Mind the sheets. I don’t know how much dust there will be. This room was last used when Jesus was a boy so expect the unexpected.” Tilda said, settling her hands on her waist like a foreman doling out duties. “The room just beside this one is mine and the door across the hall leads to the bathroom which has a water closet installed. Also, if you do need anything, Margaret dear, you’ll have to make sure to speak up. I’m not the overly nurturing type of woman who thrives on child rearing and has mastered the practice of reading minds to come with it. What do you think of the room? Will it do?”

 Maggie walked inside tentatively. A floorboard creaked noisily, but that was the only sound as she studied the walls and the vanity table with its three compact drawers.

 “It’s wonderful. Thank you.” Maggie said.

 And really it was.

 “Do you have anything else with you other than the clothes on your back?” Aunt Tilda asked finally, watching Maggie move curiously about the room.

 “No, I wasn’t able to take anything with me.” Maggie answered, sitting down on the bed.

 A small cloud of dust rose at the commotion, but not overmuch that it would bother Maggie while she slept.

 “We’ll tackle that next.” Aunt Tilda said, moving back towards the door. “Sleep well, darling girl. Tomorrow is another day.”

 Before Maggie knew it, the bedroom door had been closed, she was alone again with her thoughts, her recently shattered heart, and the promise of a whole new life ahead of her.

 

OOOOOOO

 

The next day, two things happened.

 First, Aunt Tilda grabbed a shotgun from a cabinet in the foyer after breakfast, loaded it in the kitchen, and went out the side door with it on her shoulder telling Maggie, “Bar admittance to any and all strangers at least until I come back.” Two hours later, Aunt Tilda returned in her yellow Peugeot 125—one of the few automobiles in town—with one large steamer trunk in the back that held stuffed within it every earthly possession Maggie had owned since childhood.

 “Those are my things,” Maggie sputtered, combing through the familiar clothing and keepsakes all packed into the trunk haphazardly. “How’d you get them?”

 Aunt Tilda put the break down on the car and hopped out into the dirt, reaching for the shotgun still on the passenger side once she was on her feet.

 “I asked nicely,” Tilda said, slinging the shotgun across her shoulders and walking back towards the house.

 The next thing that happened once Maggie’s things had all been settled into her new room, was that Aunt Tilda told her in no uncertain terms she was going back to school come hell or high water. Maggie had never been one to argue with her parents, but her humiliation and heartbreak still blazed so brightly throughout her entire being that all she saw when she closed her eyes were sparks and all she felt was pain.

 “I can’t go back to school. Not now and not ever, “ Maggie disputed, while Aunt Tilda stirred a pot of diced tomatoes mixed together with canned corn and green beans on the cast-iron stove.

 “Why ever not, kitten?” Aunt Tilda gestured to another mason jar on the table, this one full of what looked like pickled red onions. “Would you hand me that jar, dear? Lord knows there isn’t a kitchen god made that your Aunt Tilda can’t burn down, but hopefully those onions will see this soup put right. Either that or you and I are going to be miserable. You were saying, darling?”

“Eliza told her parents about my feelings. That’s how my parents found out about us.” Maggie explained, frantically. “I’m sure it’s all over town by now. I can’t show my face at school again, I just can’t.”

 “I empathize with your predicament, Margaret, really I do, but you can’t run forever and I’ve seen enough of the world to know that you will want to be a part of it someday. I know the small minded denizens of our sleepy hamlet tend to frown upon a good education, but believe me when I tell you that you are going to need it if you intend to get the hell out of here.”

 “You just don’t understand!” Maggie cried, dropping into a chair and burying her head in her hands on the table. She felt defeated.

 “I do actually,” Aunt Tilda countered, emptying the entire mason jar of onions into the soup and wrinkling up her nose at the pungent aroma. “In more detail than I feel comfortable going into with you at the moment. Look, I’ll make you a deal: you go back for a day and if Johanna or Mrs. Kopchovsky or whatever her name is these days can’t keep those ungrateful ingrates she teaches in line, then we’ll make some changes.”

 “What changes?” Maggie asked, perking up a bit, lifting her head off of the table.

 “That remains to be seen, dear, but just fair warning, anything I do seldom goes unnoticed.”

 Aunt Tilda covered the stew pot and wiped her hands on her apron. She settled comfortably into the chair across from Maggie and folded her hands in front of her on the table. They sat in awkward silence for what seemed like forever, but was probably only a minute or so. Finally, Aunt Tilda, slapped her hands down restlessly on the tabletop.

 “Well, this is terribly boring.” Aunt Tilda groaned, leaning back in her chair. “Is this how other people live their lives? How sad.”

 Maggie suppressed a chuckle. She didn’t actually know anything about Aunt Tilda yet, but from what she was learning about her, her aunt enjoyed being theatrical. She leaned into every rumor that Maggie had ever heard about her and seemed to confirm them all simply by being a woman who was so different than any other Maggie had ever met up to this point in her life that she could believe Aunt Tilda doing every wild thing the people in town believed she had.  She’d only spent a day in her aunt’s house and already Maggie had watched her load a shotgun, retrieve everything Maggie had owned from her parents’ presumably at shotgun point, and drive an automobile unlike anything that anyone owned in the county like it was the easiest thing in the world. Aunt Tilda was definitely not a woman of her time and Maggie had never been so grateful for something in all her life.

 “We could talk?” Maggie volunteered as she watched her aunt’s hands continue to drum on the table to a tune that could only be heard in her head.

 “About what, dear?”

 “Ourselves,” Maggie said, shrugging as Aunt Tilda stopped drumming, “Other than that you’re my mom’s sister, I know next to nothing about you.”

 “Hm,” Aunt Tilda hummed, tilting her head to the side, some of her dark hair falling loose from the messy bun at the back of her head to flutter down over her ears. “I can’t say I’m surprised at that. Josie and I—we haven’t really spoken in years. Not since her marriage to your father in fact.”

 “Why is that?” Maggie asked, suddenly curious.

 “Back when we were girls, your mother and I used to talk about what sort of lives we’d live when we were grown. Every day we would dream of travelling someplace different, someplace like Dicken’s London or Dumas’ France. We vowed to see all the world and to never become ordinary women.” Tilda explained, with this wistful far away expression. “Our mother was always reading stories to us in the front parlor of our home. One day I decided to write a story of my own and Josie and I acted it out for our parents in their store. The customers thought it was so charming that our father had the story published in the _Blue Springs Gazette_.”

 Aunt Tilda bit her lip as she stared into space and reminisced. As Maggie listened, she took a moment to study the woman in front of her. Her skin was tan like Maggie’s own, her eyes were a lighter brown, and her hair was as black as the coal their father hauled in from town to heat their homestead. Judging by the lack of wrinkles and signs of wear on her aunt’s face, she was probably in her thirties somewhere, not much younger than Maggie’s mother, but it was in their eyes, that Maggie noticed the real difference. Maggie’s mother—even when she smiled—seemed to have this tired, fatigued dimness in her expression, but her Aunt Tilda’s eyes had this mischievous shine to them no matter what she was doing.

 “I grew enamored with the attention.” Aunt Tilda continued dreamily. “I’d memorize poems from books of my mother’s and recite them on the walkway outside of our store for pennies. After a while, I decided that was what I wanted to do, tell stories for all the world to see. My mother gave me money to try my luck with a travelling theater troop in Lincoln. After a year touring through every state and territory, I’d joined a vaudeville act in New York and it wasn’t long after that when I received a letter from Josie, letting me know she’d been proposed to by your father. You wouldn’t know it to look at him now, but young Robbie Sawyer had a certain Irish charm about him when we were school children together and I guess your mother decided at some point that he would be enough for her in all of his disheveled glory. I was disappointed in a way, that she’d let go of her dreams, but I suppose I shouldn’t be, after all, here you are.”

 “You’ve really been to New York City?” Maggie asked in awe. “Wait, you went to New York and you came back here? Why?”

 Maggie’s aunt only chuckled at her enthusiasm, but before Maggie could ask more questions, the pot on the stove began to boil over. Aunt Tilda cursed loudly in a continued stream of words as she hopped up from her seat, yanked a dish rag off of the counter, and tried for all she was worth to move the pot off from the stove to the countertop without causing further damage. Maggie watched with wide eyes as Aunt Tilda scurried almost inhumanly fast across the wooden floor in her stocking feet—nearly sliding before dumping the pot in the sink once she was close enough with a loud crash.

 Maggie sat stock still as Aunt Tilda let out an undignified huff of air from between her lips and settled her hands on her waist as she looked down at their ruined supper.

 “Well, that was anti-climactic. What do you say we drive into Beatrice for supper? The hotel there has this lovely little restaurant I frequented when I stayed there.” Aunt Tilda suggested. “Grab a hat from the wrack in the foyer. I’m driving.”

 

OOOOOOOO

 

The next morning saw Maggie emerging from her bedroom under a cloud of dread.

She’d put on her favorite blue dress in hopes that it would help somehow—put her more at ease maybe—but it hadn’t worked . Maggie stood in front of the mirror in her bedroom and stared at her reflection. She didn’t see the once carefree girl she’d been looking back at her, but a battered impersonation of her former self. Fear, cold and hard, crystallized in her belly and made her heart constrict in her chest and her lungs want to heave.

She couldn’t do this. Whatever made her think that she could? She couldn’t! She couldn’t go back.

Aunt Tilda’s voice floated impatiently up the stairs, “Margaret, while arriving fashionably late is never a bad thing, I think you’re cutting it a little close this morning.”

Maggie stared at her reflection and stared trying to stem the rapid rate of her breathing. Her lungs were working so hard that it was as if she were running down the road to her parents’ homestead and she thought of that afternoon not so many days ago when she and Eliza had raced one another back to their houses after school. She thought of the way Eliza’s blonde hair had fanned out behind her as she ran and of how the girl’s radiant smile had reached her eyes. Immediately, Maggie felt her chest contract painfully tight as if someone had tied a hemp rope around her middle and pulled and pulled and pulled.

She felt the wetness on her cheeks before she realized that she was crying. Before long whatever air she was able to inhale was choked out in painful, incoherent sobs.

Then she felt a soft touch on her face and suddenly Aunt Tilda was standing in front of her, trying to center her attention.

“Margaret, look at me,” Aunt Tilda commanded, resting her hands on both sides of Maggie’s face. “Focus on me and take a deep breath. In and out. In and out. Good.”

Even though it hurt, Maggie took in great gusts of air, held them a second, then exhaled through her sobs. After a few minutes of this, she felt her muscles relax as her sobs subsided.

“Listen to me, Margaret. I know today will be hard for you, but there are so many ways it could go, there isn’t much reason to agonize over the way everything might play out. Life goes on. We’ll make it work. “

“Eliza doesn’t love me,” Maggie said, her voice broken and hopeless. “How can I face her? I feel so ashamed. I should have just kept my feelings to myself.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong.” Aunt Tilda reminded her gently. “Hell, most people twice your age don’t have half of the courage you’ve displayed in the last couple of days. You’re stronger than you know, Margaret, and today you’re going to show your peers in that one room school-dump that you won’t be beaten down by their mean-spirited rumblings. You just have to get out of the front door first.”

“What do I do if they make fun of me?”

“You can make fun of them back, that was always my favorite approach, or you can ignore them and hold your head high knowing that all you did was bare your heart to the world and that will never be a sin.”

Maggie nodded her head and sniffled pitifully.

She didn’t feel strong or confident or worthwhile. She felt wrung out, emotionally and mentally drained. How could she go back? Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as she thought. Maybe it would be worse. Either way, Maggie wouldn’t know until she left her aunt’s house and it was the not knowing that tied her stomach up into knots. Despite all of the fear and apprehension flooding her senses, there remained a constant optimistic yearning within Maggie, a pinning for the girl she’d fallen in love with. No matter how shattered her poor heart was, Maggie wanted to see Eliza again. No, she _needed_ to see Eliza again if only to figure out how things went so wrong between them, how one of them could be so in love and the other could not.

Maggie swatted at the moisture on her cheeks, “I think I’m ready to go.”

Aunt Tilda nodded and pulled Maggie in for quick hug. Maggie clung to her only family left in the world, letting the encouragement and comfort the embrace offered fortify her heart against what was surely coming for her.

 

OOOOOO

 

The Peugeot’s radiator sputtered and burbled, letting out short mechanical belches every few miles as they drove.

Aunt Tilda had re-dressed herself in what she’d called a ‘driving outfit’, but it was the sort of clothes Maggie had never seen another woman wear before: white cotton breeches, knee high brown boots, a white wool fitted jacket for the cold, a white stock tie that encircled her neck with a fancy opal stickpin, and a brown leather driving cap that held her dark hair out of her face as they sped along. When Aunt Tilda had first emerged from the bathroom in that outfit after Maggie’s panic attack had eased, Maggie’s eyes had almost bugged out of her head she had been so surprised, but Aunt Tilda had only shrugged her shoulders and said, “Might as well give your classmates something else to talk about while we’re at it. It’ll keep the stink off of you for a while longer at any rate.”

The Peugeot let out one stout cough that shook Maggie out of her thoughts. When she looked up, she saw dozens of small heads peeking out of the approaching schoolhouse windows facing the road she and Aunt Tilda were driving down. Maggie searched the curious features of each child in vain for a flash of familiar white blonde hair or soft blue eyes, but to no avail. Her Eliza was nowhere to be seen.

Aunt Tilda pulled back the break and parked the car right in front of the schoolhouse. Maggie looked down at her hands in her lap, feeling the stares of every kid in town boring into the side of her face as painfully as if each pair of inquisitive eyes were wood screws.

“Once you’re through that door, the worst part will be over.” Aunt Tilda whispered from beside her.

Maggie nodded minutely and—with a resolve she didn’t know she had in her—she stood from her seat and stepped down into the dirt.

The door to the schoolhouse opened then and Mrs. Kopchovsky walked out into the yard towards them. Maggie stood beside the car and waited while the teacher strode forward. Mrs. Kopchovsky raised her hand above her eyes to shield them from the midday sunlight as she came to a halt beside the vehicle.

 “Good afternoon, Margaret and Tilde. It’s good to see you alive and well. You’d been gone from town so long, rumor had it an imposter came back in your place.” Mrs. Kopchovsky said, smiling.

 “Johanna,” Maggie’s Aunt nodded her head with a wink. “I trust you have my niece’s best interests at heart?”

“You know I do,” the schoolteacher replied, more earnestly than Maggie had expected. “That’s why I thought it best that she was escorted inside.”

 “You’re a good egg, JoJo.” Aunt Tilda winked again, then bent low towards Maggie. “Remember, you didn’t do anything wrong. Hold your head high, Margaret. Toodles all.”

With that Aunt Tilda released the brake and she and the Peugeot were racing down the road again. Mrs. Kopchovsky guided Maggie towards the schoolhouse and the waiting students within.

 

OOOOOOOO

 

The whispers of the other children had died down as soon as Mrs. Kopchovsky led Maggie over the threshold. Everyone had turned to look at her except for the one person Maggie desperately wanted to see her.  She’d been ushered past Eliza’s seat in the middle of the room toward a desk in the front row, which was supposed to keep Maggie close enough for the teacher to monitor, but as soon as Mrs. Kopchovsky turned her back, the whispering started anew.

It began low enough in volume that it was almost unnoticeable and then—like the swell of a tidal current—the hushed murmurs began to ebb and swell throughout the room until Mrs. Kopchovsky couldn’t talk over it anymore and shushed them. Then the cycle would continue at full speed and repeat itself, over, and over, and over again.

Through it all, Maggie sat in her chair, her fingers gripping the edge of her seat so hard it almost hurt.

Several times, she tried to subtly glance behind her to see if she could catch Eliza’s eye, but every time she was met with condemnatory giggles and the gut-wrenching image of Eliza, pale and listless, stiffly rooted to her place, staring unseeingly at the desk top in front of her. She looked more tired and worn down than Maggie could ever remember seeing her. Even on the rare occasions when Eliza had been ill, she’d always put a smile onto her face for Maggie’s benefit and insist she was fine even when she clearly wasn’t.

 _She was always putting me first,_ Maggie thought, _how could it be then that she doesn’t love me?_

Maggie wasn’t simple. She knew there were different types of love. There was the love a parent had for their children or the love a child held for a beloved family pet, or even the begrudging love a sibling had for another sibling. Then there was the most famous kind of love—the kind of love written about in all the songs and poems of the world—the kind of love that could leave someone breathless.

That was the kind of love Maggie had for Eliza…but that wasn’t the kind of love Eliza had for her. Maggie may not have done anything wrong, as Aunt Tilda was keen to remind her, but she felt like she had because she’d loved Eliza the wrong way. It hadn’t been intentional or malicious or careless even, but it was unwanted all the same by the other party the way an unannounced guest was unwelcome in the home of their host. Despite herself, Maggie felt guilty and dumb for allowing herself to fall in love with her best friend even though she wasn’t sure—that given the chance—she would’ve been able to stop herself in the first place.

She needed to talk to Eliza, to explain herself, to set things right again, but how could she do that in the middle of a crowded classroom?

Maggie turned slightly in her seat, just enough so she could see Eliza out of the corner of her eye. Eliza was sitting much the same way as before only this time her shoulders were hunched, tense and then Maggie noticed them: Artie Wainwright and Ricky Miller.

Artie was a tall, lanky boy of 16 who always dressed in layers as if he were wearing every piece of clothing he owned on his back no matter what the season: a thick black coat over an ill-fitting hand knitted sweater and topped off with a spotted necktie knotted lopsidedly around the mouth of the sweater. Ricky was younger, 12 maybe, but he had a mouth on him like a foghorn and always wore fingerless gloves as more of an expression of personal style than to keep his hands warm. Both boys made up Blue Springs’ most successful team of bullies. They were the scourge of every new student no matter what the age and the ever waking nightmare of any kid too timid to stand up for themselves.

Ricky stretched over his desk from where he was sitting directly behind Eliza, the oversized tweed eight sided cap on his head falling into his eyes, and poked her in the back with his index finger. She tensed up, but otherwise ignored him. Artie—sitting in the desk to Eliza’s right—leaned over and gave her ear closest to him a flick. Eliza flinched, but didn’t stop him or tell him off, just took it like some sort of punishment. Artie shared a conspiratorial chuckle with Ricky and then did it again and again Eliza didn’t make any attempt to stop them.

After sharing another laugh, Artie leaned in a fourth time. Just as he brought his hand up to flick Eliza in the ear, an illustrated copy of _Mather’s History of America: Second Edition_ slammed into the side of his face, causing Artie to almost fall out of his chair while he struggled with a mouthful of painted pages.

“You’ll leave her alone if either one of you know what’s good for you.” Maggie said, standing from her seat and turning around.

Maggie had always hated bullies and whether or not Eliza loved her back, no one picked on her best friend for any reason.

“Margaret!” Mrs. Kopchovsky’s voice floated down from the front of the room.

The whispers swelled into to guffaws and jeers. Eliza sunk lower in her seat and, despite having the courage of her convictions, Maggie felt the blood rush to her cheeks as she stood defiantly for all the room to see.

Ricky stood up from his desk too and sauntered into the middle of the aisle.

“Way to stick up for your _girlfriend_ , Sawyer!” Ricky taunted

The class erupted into an uncoordinated slurry of laughter and Maggie felt their collective joy at being cohesively normal coat her ears like a cold winter sleet.

“Richard, sit down!” Mrs. Kopchovsky ordered, but she was ignored.

 “Dyke, dyke, take a hike!” Ricky started chanting quickly followed by Artie. “Dyke, dyke, take a hike!”

Soon enough, the whole classroom was shouting the insult at the top of their lungs like a hateful mantra, exuberant light in their eyes and jubilation radiating in their expressions as they denounced the outlier in their midst marking the one who didn’t belong to their number as though she were as despicable as Cain.

For the second instant in Maggie’s life, time seemed to slow down to a crawl before her eyes and she witnessed the scene unfolding as if she were a spectator in her own life, not the focus of it. The raucous jeering surrounding Maggie faded from her ears as if she’d just lifted the tonearm on a gramophone and suddenly she saw and recognized them—the faces of neighbors, children of people her parents sat with at church, children who had played hide and seek with Maggie and her brother in the aisles of her grandparents’ general store on hot summer afternoons, and even her own brother, Dominic—all were accounted for and all were as happy in their slow motion ridicule of her as if it were the fourth of July and bursts of fireworks were exploding in frescos of bright colors against the night sky over the Big Blue River. Mouths hung wide open, eyes watered, hands were thrown into the air with abandon, and fists pounded on desks to their own tempos. Suddenly, Maggie didn’t recognize her classmates anymore. They were no longer her peers, but frightful caricatures of themselves.

 _They’re like monkeys in a zoo,_ Maggie thought. _They know me. Why are they doing this?_

Maggie felt a slow pressure against her shoulder and fully came back to herself just as a Math book suddenly slammed into her clavicle. Then another book hit her, this time square in the chest. Another narrowly missed he left ear.  Maggie raised her arms to protect her face as her classmates lobbed more textbooks. She felt the beginnings of what would surely be bruises tomorrow form on her torso, her abdomen, her arms and her legs. Before Maggie was able to formulate a way to get herself out of this mess, someone spoke up above the chanting and the almost threadbare voice of Mrs. Kopchovsky.

“Stop! Stop it!”

The chanting died down immediately into silence and Maggie opened her eyes.

“Please…” Eliza said in this small broken voice that didn’t sound like her own. “Please. Just stop.”

Maggie felt her heart lurch forward in her chest at the words. For a moment, Eliza stood by her seat, though Maggie hadn’t seen her stand, then she was moving, running down the center aisle towards the schoolhouse door and out into the still bright afternoon.

 “Lizzy, Lizzy, wait!” Maggie called after her.

Maggie didn’t stay to see the room descend back into hateful murmurs. She raced down the aisle and into the schoolyard. She looked around and finally spotted Eliza some distance away still fleeing through a farmer’s frozen field, stumbling over uneven clods of mud. In a burst of speed, Maggie bolted after her, feeling the cold winter air burn her lungs as she struggled to catch up.

“Lizzy!” She shouted as loudly as she could. “Lizzy, please stop!”

But Eliza didn’t stop, not right away at least. She ran and ran and ran, finally halting only when her muscles had tired and she was fighting to draw in enough breath to stay upright. Maggie managed to catch up to her and stopped, gasping for air. They both stood, cheeks flushed, bent over in the mud of Mr. Emory’s fields together in their emotional and physical exhaustion. Finally, when Maggie could breathe easily again, she straightened and took a step closer to the other girl.

“Don’t, don’t come near me!” Eliza shouted, scrambling a few steps away.

“Just tell me why,” Maggie asked, quietly. “Why don’t you love me the same way I love you?”

“It isn’t natural, Maggie.” Eliza choked through hurried breaths, “I care for you, but…but as a former friend. Nothing more.”

Maggie nodded her head and took a deep breath. As much as her heart ached, she could accept that. Wait…did Eliza just say _former_?

“Former friend?” Maggie asked.

Eliza didn’t look her in the eyes, instead staring somewhere off to the side as she said the words Maggie never imagined she would ever have to hear in her life: “We can’t continue as we were… I don’t want to see you again. I’m sorry.”

With that, Eliza turned around and began running again, this time in the direction of her family’s homestead and this time Maggie let her go.

 

 

OOOOOOOO

 

Maggie didn’t go back to the schoolhouse, nor would she ever step foot in that room again, she was determined. The sun above her disappeared occasionally behind a grey cloud casting the land below into shadow. Everything seemed to Maggie like something out of a Kandinsky painting. Nothing made sense and the world around her was dark and unbearable. She walked to her Aunt’s house in a haze of grief and disillusion. If her heart had been broken before, it truly was crushed beyond repair now.  Tears—she didn’t know she still had the ability to make—froze against her cheeks and by the time she’d entered the home, her entire body was numb.

“You’re home early…” Aunt Tilda commented from the entrance to the kitchen, but stopped short once she saw the look on Maggie’s face. “What happened?”

Maggie wanted to tell her, but found that she couldn’t form words. Instead, her feet carried her to the sofa in the sitting room where she dropped down and buried her face in her hands. She sobbed quietly for a few seconds before she felt a hand on her shoulder, then one on gently prying Maggie’s own fingers from her face.

“Margaret, what happened?” Aunt Tilda repeated softly.

“They…called me a Dyke and threw books at me. Mrs. Kopchovsky couldn’t stop them. Eliza did and then she…um…she told me she didn’t want to see me again.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, darling girl,” Aunt Tilda said, kissing her forehead as she started crying again. “It’s okay, it will be alright.”

When Tilda hugged her, Maggie clung to her, knowing full well that it would never be okay again.

She went up to her room without lunch after that, despite Aunt Tilda’s objections, and snuggled under the quilt on the bed. For the rest of the night and the next day, Maggie remained curled up under her blankets, refusing food and water. She slept when she could and ruminated on where her life had gone so wrong when she couldn’t. Minutes ran into hours until Maggie couldn’t tell what day it was and didn’t care to know. She’d given herself over to complete despair until one morning, she heard the sound of nails being pounded by a hammer nearby and got up. Down in the foyer, there were a few large crates already nailed shut and two men in overalls Maggie didn’t know who were lowering the pewter floor lamp that had been by the front door into another crate filled with straw.

“Oh, Margaret. You’re up.” Aunt Tilda said from the foot of the stairwell, where she stood in a pair of trousers she had made herself and her knee high driving boots.

“What’s going on?” Maggie asked, taking the steps slowly.

“I’ve decided to rejoin the wider world, for both of our sakes.” Aunt Tilda, explained settling her hands on her hips. “Four years ago, I moved back to this town thinking my life as I knew it was over just as you feel yours is now. I have had the great fortune to have led a life that has not been constrained by geography. You should be able to live such a life as well, Margaret.”

“So…we’re moving?” Maggie asked reaching the bottom of the stairs.

“Out of this hellhole, yes.” Aunt Tilda confirmed.

Maggie took in her surroundings. The sofa and the chairs in the sitting room were covered in white sheets as was the china cabinet by the entrance to the kitchen. All of the bookcases had been emptied of books. The house seemed somehow freer and lighter than Maggie had known it in her stay there, less Victorian in a way. Aunt Tilda—who had stepped briefly out of the room—reappeared beside Maggie holding a thick slice of bread slathered with molasses in a cloth.

“Eat this and change your clothes.” Aunt Tilda ordered cheerily, handing the slice of bread to Maggie. “Once the sitting room has been locked up Mr. Emerson and Mr. O’Brien will bring your trunk down, so be ready.”

The sun was still high in the sky when they left the house for the final time. It wasn’t until she and Aunt Tilda caught the train from the neighboring city of Beatrice that would take them to Chicago that Maggie finally felt herself smile again. 

That was the last time Maggie Sawyer set foot in Blue Springs, Nebraska. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next stop: Gotham :)


	3. Gravity of Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Guys! I am so, so, so sorry that it has taken me almost 6 months to update. Life happened and I haven't handled it so well. Moving on, so this chapter has a different structure than the first two. It will be split between the Alex/Maggie story and flashbacks of Maggie's life before Alex and how she came to be immortal basically. All future chapters will have this structure. Read, enjoy, and let me know what you thought of it on your way out. :)

_National City – June 2016_

“Ma’am,” Vasquez said, from her computer console. “Target has made contact.”

 

Alex stood beside Susan, with her hands on her own hips as she watched the ring surrounding the red’ dot on the main screen pulse brighter the further it moved inside of the building their DEO vans were currently staking out in the old shipping district.

 

“Send in strike team one,” Alex ordered.

 

“Team one, you’re clear to enter the warehouse.” Vasquez spoke into her headset.

 

Six blue dots tracking the vitals and movements of members of Agent Li’s team appeared on the screen, quickly maneuvering around flat gray lines meant to represent walls, drawing closer and closer to the red dot in the center of the building’s digital blueprint.

 

There was the sound of a door being broken down, combat boots stomping over concrete, and voices shouting to ‘get down, get down, get down.’  There were sounds of a scuffle as Alex imagined their agents wrestling the Korugarian smuggler to the ground and then finally:

 

“Target is secure.” Agent Li assured, “returning to base.”

 

Alex took a deep breath and stared down at her boots in an uncharacteristic show of boredom. Being a DEO agent was one of the most exciting and dangerous professions out there and Alex was usually never bored, she never had the time to be. However, ever since J’onn had refused to clear her for active duty after her latest near miss with death, she’d been going stir crazy at DEO headquarters for what felt like days on end.

 

“That went as well as could be expected,” J’onn said, stepping up beside Alex.

 

“Too well,” Alex muttered under her breath, wishing secretly that something had gone amiss so she might have been able to intercede.

 

“Do I sense that someone’s a little bit restlessness, Agent Danvers?” J’onn asked with a knowing grin.

 

“You’re psychic. You tell me.” Alex shot back, annoyed.

 

“Alex. You almost died four days ago. Hell, your heart stopped for a minute before Kara revived you so technically you _were_ dead.” J’onn said seriously. “It’s alright to take a few days to recuperate before rushing back out into the field. Kara and I both agree that this is what’s best for you.”

 

“Kara and I both agree to what?” Kara asked, landing right beside them in her Supergirl suit.

 

“My death by boredom.” Alex said, running a hand over her face tiredly.

 

“Huh?”

 

“She’s upset because she can’t go out into the field yet. I told her you and I both agreed that this was the best course of action,” J’onn explained, regarding Alex in the same paternal way he had since the day he’d bailed her out of jail and recruited her into the DEO.

 

Alex rolled her eyes and Kara glared at her, threatening hours of endless admonishment if Alex chose not to listen to them.

 

“Alex,” Kara said, with a hint of warning.

 

“All of my medical tests checked out. I’m fine,” Alex defended weakly.

 

“Alex,” Kara said again, this time louder, her expression fixed into a pout and her eyes pleading in a way that Alex could never say no to.

 

“Fine,” Alex replied, her shoulders drooping in defeat. “I’ll rest for another day or two, but after that I am back on active duty.”

 

Alex fixed J’onn with a determined look that left little doubt that she would be back in the field within the week despite her family’s overprotective efforts to keep her safe and after a tense moment of silence he nodded, giving her his blessing. Kara let out a deep breath, not looking all too pleased at the idea of her sister going back out into harm’s way, but resigning herself to the fact that it was who Alex was and Kara would support her because of it no matter what.

 

“So be it, but just to make sure you hold to your promise you _will_ be taking the next two days off on paid leave.” J’onn ordered.

 

Alex looked like she might argue, but clenched her jaw and nodded her agreement.

 

“Yay! We’ll finally have time to catch up on the newest season of Veep like we’ve been meaning to,” Kara said, smiling.

 

Alex smiled in response and nodded, but the sentiment of the gesture didn’t reach her eyes. Since the mission went wrong a few days ago, Alex had felt…off. She couldn’t explain it, she wasn’t even sure she understood what it was, but something about the experience had affected her. It’d been a standard op: chase down a Thronnian Fort Rozz escapee, capture, and neutralize him so he wouldn’t be a threat to anyone else, then return with him in custody.

 

Everything had been going well until Alex had somehow been pushed off of the pier into the sea.

 

She remembered the burning sensation as frigid saltwater flooded her lungs, the fatigue as she tried and tried to kick to the surface beneath the dragging weight of her combat gear and gun, and the dark realization that she would probably never see Kara again and never led a full, happy life like she’d promised her sister she would do. She’d worried that the last time she closed her eyes against the pale blue light filtering through the surface would be the last time she’d ever see anything. Then she’d woken up to bright sunlight on the dock, gasping harshly for air with Kara kneeling over her just as soaked through with seawater as Alex herself was, the two of them hanging onto one another like their lives depended on that connection.

 

Alex had been at death’s door at least three different times in her life:  the first time from a severe concussion, the second time from a gunshot to the chest that her vest had caught, and the third from almost drowning. After the first two escapes, she hadn’t felt different really. Her life had just gone on as it was with Kara and J’onn and their friends. She’d still called her mother at least once a week, still had sister night at Kara’s place with pizza and virtually recorded TV shows, and then there’d been the occasional game night with the Super-friends. Nothing had changed after the first two brushes with death, but Alex felt like something was missing from her life now for some reason. Who knew almost drowning in the harbor could lead to an existential crisis before she was even 30?

 

 _Whatever_ , Alex mentally berated herself, _I’ll get past this._

“Alex?”

 

Alex blinked and suddenly both J’onn and Kara were staring at her: J’onn, with an expression like he was trying to work out a puzzle, and Kara, like she was legitimately worried about what was going on in her sister’s head.

 

“Are you alright?” Kara asked, reaching for Alex’s hand.

 

“Yeah,” Alex said, brushing off her sister’s concern with a carefree smile and a level of enthusiasm she didn’t really feel. “I was just thinking, you know, about…what we’re going to be doing for the next few days. You know, we can get Chinese and oh—we can watch reruns of Mystery Science Theater—that would be great! Or, or we can go to that Thai place you love on the corner of Brenton and 52th and go shopping after…”

 

Alex grabbed Kara’s arm and pulled her forward with her as she continued to chatter on and move towards the looping corridor that would lead to the front exit. J’onn watched the two of them until they were out of sight, reserving judgment on Alex’s state of mind until he knew more about what was causing it as he often did with the humans that he cared for.

 

The next morning Alex rolled out of bed with a sore throat and a general malaise that was physically and mentally draining. Alex had always prided herself on her ability to stave off physical illness mainly by refusing to acknowledge it until it went away, but today she had to say she was feeling pretty crappy and that crappiness could be attributed to anything from the sour mood in which she’d gone to bed to the equally bad one she found herself in after a fitful night’s sleep. Regardless, Alex got up anyway, brushed her teeth, took a shower, got dressed into a pair of dark skinny jeans and a long sleeve Henley, and walked over to Kara’s for their customary early morning coffee run before Kara went into work.

 

“You busted a bank heist. That has to make you feel good,” Alex commented, staring at the front page of the _National City Journal_ where a picture of Supergirl shown apprehending a band of bank robbers with local police covered the entire spread.

 

“Eh, I don’t know how to explain it, but it feels like I could be doing more, you know?” Kara said from beside Alex as they walked down the sidewalk together in the middle of early morning foot-traffic. “Ever since Myriad, I’ve felt like everything has been too easy. Sure, there’s the odd supervillain to apprehend, but mostly it’s just bank robbers and purse thieves, not that I want bad things to happen, but I want to be able to do what I was meant to do, you know? Save lives, save the world.”

 

“Who says you can’t save the world a little bit every day”, Alex reassured, putting her arm around Kara’s shoulders and squeezing her tightly to her in a half body hug for a minute. “You’re always my hero even when you do things like get hopelessly tangled up in the cord from the vacuum cleaner.”

 

Kara laughed at that and Alex felt her dark mood lift a tiny bit at the genuinely happy smile beaming out from her little sister’s face.  Maybe she’d been overthinking things, Alex thought, maybe nothing was missing from her life. She had a great life, if she was being honest. Alex had a job she truly loved, a sister who loved and supported her, a boss who was like a father to her, and she got to fire newly developed weapons on a daily basis. What more did she need out of a life than what she already had?

 

No sooner had she let go of Kara than she felt the full weight of another body slamming carelessly into her shoulder. Alex stumbled and suddenly her dark mood had returned tenfold.

 

“Excuse you,” she shouted angrily at the back of the woman who had just run into her.

 

“I’m sorry,” the flustered brunette apologized, turning around. “I wasn’t paying attention and then I—“

 

Alex’s anger diminished as she was met with warm and sincere brown eyes and possibly the face of the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen before in her life. Something inside of her shifted—something not obvious—something Alex wouldn’t realize for months to come, but nonetheless the boulder holding back the part of herself that had always yearned to be free of its isolation had been rolled away in an instant.

 

“Are you alright?” The other woman asked her, genuinely concerned as she walked up to Alex until they were only a few feet apart.

 

Alex felt herself falling into the attentive dark gaze almost like she belonged there. It was only when Kara said her name from beside them both, that Alex regained her senses.

 

“I—I’m fine, I just spaced out for a second.” Alex said.

 

“Your name is Alex?” The other woman asked and Alex nodded her head mutely, “I’m Maggie. I really am so sorry for running into you like that. I was trying to pull my keys out of my pocket and they got stuck and—well—how about I make it up to you? There’s a restaurant just around the corner called _Noonan’s_ that makes the best cup of coffee in the city. How about I buy you both a cup for the road?”

 

Kara opened her mouth to agree because that was where they’d been headed originally anyway, but Alex elbowed her in the side—which was like elbowing a brick wall—but still Kara got the hint and remained silent.

 

“You know, that’s okay,” Alex rambled, feeling nervousness bubbling up into her chest as if she were a standing on a stage exposed for all the world to see. “There was no harm done and Kara really needs to get going or she’ll be late to work, right Kara?” 

 

“It was nice to have met you,” Kara said as Alex grabbed her arm and pulled her hurriedly away in the opposite direction.

 

“You too,” Maggie replied quietly, watching the two women retreat from her as if they’d been burned.

 

Little did either one of them know that their lives would never be the same ever again after that day.

 

* * *

 

_Gotham City, United States_

In April of 1915, Maggie Sawyer moved to Gotham City.

 

She’d traveled the globe with Aunt Tilda, attending schools in cities both domestic and foreign, she’d seen more of the world and more of life than she ever thought she would have, and the brave, confident woman she’d become thereafter was a reflection of that. Maggie now knew who she was and what she was worth and no one would be able to convince her otherwise.

 

She’d found work first in a settlement house on the lower East Side where her supervisor had offered her a promotion promptly followed by him placing his hand on her ass. Suffice it to say, Maggie had turned down the promotion and broken his hand in the process, choosing to take work driving a gravel truck as opposed to something more befitting her education because the hard scrabble life where she had more freedom to live and dress as she chose agreed with her more than the stuffily bourgeois lives of the wealthy and those aspiring to become the wealthy.

 

Living on her own financial means was difficult. Most women went from their father’s homes to their husband’s. Only the women who had to or who wanted more dared to live another life where they were solely responsible for themselves. A life that society didn’t want them to have, but Maggie had never been a woman of her time and luckily for her she never would be.

 

One day late in the month, Maggie was scheduled to make a delivery to the construction site of the new Gotham Central Train Depot—destined to be the second largest train station on the Eastern seaboard for the next eighty years. When her truck pulled up to the hastily laid dirt driveway leading to the pit where crews of men were digging the foundation of the building, the construction manager scratched his head.

 

“But…you’re a broad?” He said in disbelief, eyeing her up and down like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

 

Maggie rolled her eyes. The men working on the sites she delivered to balked when they saw her in her overalls and cowhide work gloves so often that it hardly phased her anymore. Still it was entertaining sometimes to watch their eyes bulge out of their skulls like the puppets at a Punch and Judy show.

 

“Yeah, I may be a woman, but I’m still the driver. You want the gravel you paid for or not?”  Maggie quipped down at him.

 

The site manager grumbled something under his breath and jerked his thumb back towards the pit. Maggie drove the truck where she’d been directed and pulled to a stop just in front of the digs. She hopped down from her seat.

 

“Hey, anyone know where they want the gravel dumped?” She shouted at anyone who was close enough to hear.

 

Of the sixty or so men present, no one bothered to answer her.

 

Letting out a frustrated huff of air, Maggie marched herself up to a group of men all crowded around something in a corner near the back of the shallow pit.  She bumped herself through the loose knit mass of dirty bodies and immediately stopped in her tracks when she caught sight of what everyone was staring at.

 

“We stopped digging as soon as we found it,” the construction worker nearest her said in a shaky voice.

 

Maggie peered over his shoulder. Sticking out from beneath the broken earth was a small child’s foot.

 

“Someone call the cops!” a burly man Maggie thought might be the foreman shouted. Another man nodded and ran to the diner across the street where there was a phone.

 

As discretely as she could, Maggie knelt down beside the body. The child’s exposed leg and foot were rigid and though Maggie could tell the body had probably been stashed there less than 24 hours ago, the child’s skin was permeated through with an unnaturally bright pink hue that Maggie recognized from her studies in Paris.

 

 _It’s not your problem_ , a voice in the back of Maggie’s mind spoke up, _just leave well enough alone and continue on with your life._

Maggie stepped back and—as she often did—she kept what she knew to herself and minded her own business.

 

The police arrived within the hour, siren horns churning nosily. All of the workers as well as Maggie were asked to stay onsite until a GCPD officer could take their statements.  Five uniformed policemen meandered around to each worker in no particular hurry, asking questions, jotting down pharaphrasings of various answers given. Half an hour flew by in no time and Maggie was all too aware that she was getting behind on her deliveries. Her boss was a decent man, but she didn’t doubt that if he had to compensate all of his customers for a day of work lost, she’d be fired in no time and finding another source of income was a financial headache Maggie did not need right now.

 

Stealthily, she started to slink back towards her truck. She was beginning to lift herself up into the driver’s seat when she felt a grip on the crook of her arm pull her back down. Maggie immediately wrenched her arm back when her feet were on solid ground again and whirled around, ready to deck her attacker.

 

“Whoa, whoa, hey! Well-meaning cop here,” a man in a Homburg hat and a serge coat shouted as he put his arms up to shield his face.

 

Maggie lowered her fist and crossed her arms over her chest, waiting. When the anticipated blow never came, the man lowered his arms to reveal an oval face with dark sideburns and somewhat sincere eyes. He reached hurriedly into a side pocket and held up a thin leather wallet with a brass badge inside.

 

“I’m Detective Joely Bartlett, GCPD. I’m afraid I can’t let you leave the site until you answer some questions for me.”

 

“One: the fact you think you are letting me do anything is amusing, Two: I have deliveries to make that are already behind schedule or I might lose my job and you wouldn’t want to be responsible for that would you, detective?” Maggie asked, turning around to hop back up into the front seat.

 

She felt another tug, this time on the back of her jacket and again her feet ended up back on the ground.

 

“Stop grabbing me. I don’t know anything!” Maggie shouted, annoyed.

 

She turned around again and Detective Bartlett backed away, hands raised up in surrender.

 

“I would still prefer if you didn’t leave, Miss Sawyer is it? Every witness needs to give a statement. It’s procedure.” Detective Bartlett said, almost regrettably. “If you like, we could call your boss from the station and explain the situation. Might get you out of dutch, but we’d have to take your statement there first.”

 

“If it’s all the same to you, detective, I think I’ll take my chances with my boss on my own.” Maggie said, backing up towards her truck.

 

In Maggie’s nineteen years of life, she’d tried her best to stay on the right side of the law in every country she’d lived in, but many of her Aunt’s friends in Europe had had less than glowing encounters with various law enforcement groups over their long queer lives. As an openly gay woman on her own in the world, Maggie was naturally cautious of any group of people charged by those in power with the task of upholding the often arbitrary laws in which only the very rich _normal_ majority benefited.

 

For as brave as she was, Maggie had never been arrested for her “lifestyle” and didn’t ever want to take the risk of drawing attention to herself in that way. She’d vowed to herself long ago on a train steaming out of Nebraska that she’d find a way to live a full life and to—not just survive—but to thrive: to fall into love and out again, to travel and see everything the world had to offer, and to experience all there was to experience. Gotham was to be just one footnote in the story of her life and she didn’t want to end it there.

 

She could knockout a cop, of that Maggie was sure, but she didn’t want the legal repercussions that were sure to follow if she used that mean right hook she’d been famous for amongst her more raucous university friends in the Latin Quarter.

 

“The sooner you give your statement, the quicker I’ll stop bothering you and you can get back to your deliveries. I don’t know about you, but that sounds like a win-win kind of situation to me for both of us,” Joely said, settling his hands into his trouser pockets and rocking nervously from his heels to the balls of his feet and back again, “what do you say, miss?”

 

Maggie opened her mouth to answer, but a voice from somewhere behind her cut her off.

 

“Or we could arrest you for obstruction of justice,” said a second man in a dark greatcoat, leaning against the front of Maggie’s truck lighting a cigarette.

 

He was taller than Maggie by a head and his blonde hair had been combed back with so much brill cream that she doubted a windstorm would be able to knock it loose. He fumbled with the lighter, clicking it over and over again between his fat fingers until finally a flame caught and the end of his cigarette glowed orange, illuminating dark eyes that seemed to regard Maggie as a nuisance already.

 

Maggie clenched her jaw. This was just what she’d been trying to avoid. If she was arrested then more questions than she wanted answered would be asked about her. Maggie looked between the two men and finally, relented.

 

“Alright,” Maggie agreed, dropping her arms to her sides. “What do you want to know officers?”

 

* * *

 

 

 

The drive back to the GCPD station on 4th Street was maybe a twenty minute journey, but to Maggie it felt like an eternity, stuffed into the back of a Model T with two cops sitting in the front seat giving her varying looks through the rearview mirror. Detective Bartlett looked at her like he felt guilty for calling her in whereas his blonde partner looked at Maggie like she was a piece of dog shit on the sole of his shoe. Maggie didn’t shy away from either of them, instead she glared through the mirror right back at them both.

 

“So,” Detective Bartlett asked, clearing his throat. “What’s a woman like you doing driving a gravel truck?”

 

Maggie shrugged and looked out the side window, “the owner didn’t demand I wear a dress and I could do the work so…”

 

“What a waste,” the blonde cop commented from the driver’s seat. “Some honest man’s outta work because you haven’t settled down and had a family like you’re supposed to.”

 

“If this hypothetical man you’re championing really is honest then he can be honest someplace else,” Maggie stated with a smirk. “Women need to make a living too.”

 

The blonde cop’s eyes in the mirror were wide, angry, and bloodshot and if Maggie didn’t know any better, she would have expected them to shoot right out of his skull and into the windshield.

 

“You mouthy little —,“ he started to growl, but Detective Bartlett interrupted him.

 

“Easy, Cornwell. You’re not from around here are you, miss?” Bartlett asked, turning around in his seat to face Maggie, grinning.

 

“What gave me away?” Maggie asked, amused.

 

This time it was Detective Bartlett’s turn to shrug, “just a lucky guess. So, where are you from originally?”

 

Maggie’s face fell a bit, “Nebraska.”

 

“The foreman at the site said that he saw you kneeling beside the body. Care to tell us about that?” Detective Bartlett asked, holding Maggie’s gaze in the mirror.

 

“Did you notice the kid’s skin was bright pink?’ Maggie asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

 

“Yeah, what of it?” Cornwell grumbled from the driver’s seat.

 

“That brilliant pink hue only occurs in people who’ve died of carbon monoxide poisoning.” Maggie explained.

 

“How the hell would a gutter rat like you know something like that?” Cornwell asked with an air of suspicion.

 

“I studied medicine at the Universities of Lyon and Paris while my aunt and I were living in France.” Maggie said.

 

“You wanted to be a doctor? You?!” Cornwell balked, his face reddening as he bristled with male indignation Maggie saw directed at her nearly every day.

 

“I didn’t know what I wanted to be,” Maggie answered, trying to remain relaxed even though the frustration radiating from the front was starting to make her muscles tense up. “Just something extraordinary. My aunt supported my ambitions and her friends humored me after her death, but I left school not long after.”

 

“Why?” Bartlett asked earnestly, stuffing tobacco from his jacket pocket into a pipe. “It seems you excelled at it.”

 

“School was expensive and then the War happened.” Maggie sighed, looking back out the window at the horse carts they passed and the people walking to and fro parallel to the street wandering through their everyday lives without a purpose or a plan. “With the German army marching through Belgium into France, it was just easier to leave.”

 

“So you decided to settle in the murder capitol of the world?” Bartlett asked, lighting his pipe and taking a few experimental puffs off of it.

 

“I never intended to end up here.” Maggie explained absently. “I moved to New York first, then Newark, Star City, Metropolis, and finally Gotham. I don’t know why, there was just something about this place that seemed…new and worthwhile.”

 

Cornwell grunted in irritation from his driver’s seat, but said nothing. Bartlett drew on his pipe thoughtfully and Maggie sat silently contemplating the memories that swirled around in her skull, popping up in her consciousness as if they’d happened yesterday and not months or even years ago.

 

In her mind’s eye, she saw herself at a café laughing with school friends, or on a boat chuffing down the Seine where a blonde beauty named Marie had given her the first real lover’s kiss Maggie had ever experienced. There were other less enjoyable memories: flashes of that one time she’d gotten into a fist fight while drunk in the Latin Quarter and had been knocked out and left in a narrow alley until the cold spring air woke her up the next morning. Or the memory of that terrible beige room in the Hôtel-Dieu where her Aunt Tilda had spent her last few miserable days on Earth, Maggie sitting by her side with a handful of Tilda’s closest friends until she’d taken her final breath and her weakened heart had finally given out.

 

In the moments afterward, Maggie remembered the way the sunlight from the one open window had cascaded down upon the bright white sheets covering her aunt’s body and she’d felt this overwhelming feeling in her gut that the thing she had been dreading for the past two months had come to pass and yet the world remained the same around her, only she was different…lost somehow, adrift.

 

“We’re here.” Detective Bartlett announced as their car maneuvered in between two stone posts and stopped in the middle of a flagstone yard in front of a stocky brick building. “Welcome to the Gotham City Police Department, Miss Sawyer.”

 

Maggie stepped out of the back seat. She stared up at the daunting front façade of the police station and for some reason she couldn’t place, she felt at home. Like she belonged there.

 

“Sawyer, you coming or what? Today please.” Cornwell groused, over his shoulder.

 

Despite shaping up to be her nemesis, he held the door open for her as she sauntered in, well on the way to a future she would never have been able to foresee.

 

* * *

 

_National City – June 2016_

_Damn it_ , Alex groaned internally as yet another mechanical pencil tip busted against the clipboard she’d been writing her notes down on.

 

“Problem, Agent Danvers?” J’onn asked from the doorway to the DEO’s med bay where Alex had been assigned to run tests on the latest technology confiscated from their last Fort Rozz escapee.

 

Alex looked up from her work, frustrated. “No, I’m just—”

 

“Distracted,” J’onn finished for her, stepping fully into the room and crossing his arms across his chest as he watched her. “You know if there were any active Ops, I’d send you out into the field to work off some of that excess energy you’ve been storing up, but as it stands there is nothing for you to do except, well, lab work.”

 

Alex sighed and set the clipboard down on the desk she’d been using to observe the particle deconstruction process of a piece of the matter replicator (at least she was pretty sure that was what it was) that the DEO had taken off of that Korugarian smuggler they’d apprehended three days ago. She should have been thrilled to be back at work or at the very least intrigued by the process. Alex was a Bio-engineer after all, but for some reason she couldn’t quite name, her heart just wasn’t in it today.

 

“I think I need to take a break—get some fresh air, if that’s okay?” Alex asked, surprising herself as the words passed her lips.

 

“Of course,” J’onn nodded, “Go for a walk or get a coffee or something, but be ready to focus when you get back.”

 

Alex rolled her eyes and J’onn let a rare laugh escape his mouth as she shed her lab coat on her way leading out into the rest of the building.

 

Alex immediately felt better once her feet were firmly planted on the sidewalk. The sun had risen over most of the buildings, peaking between too tall skyscrapers like yellow slots of light through Venetian blinds. It was comforting—the way the rhythm of the city remained the same every day. Things changed, places were bulldozed or bought and renovated. Intersections were occasionally renamed, but beneath the surface of it all, beneath the objects, life ran through the cityscape morning to night at the same speed like it was turning on a wheel.

 

Just after she entered _Noonan’s_ , Alex moved to the side out of the way of the door and leaned back against the wall, staring up at the sign showing all of the various coffee concoctions. She always went over the selections thinking that she might try something new that day, but in the end Alex always got the same thing: a Café Mocha with a croissant when she felt like it.

 

“Dugan!” The barista called out the next finished order.

 

 _What are you waiting for?_ An impatient little voice from deep inside Alex’s consciousness goaded her. _Order already._

 

In truth, Alex didn’t know what was keeping her from ordering. She just had this feeling in her bones that she should stay put right where she was, as if she were wearing metal boots and a magnet was beneath the floorboards holding her in place.  

 

“Sawyer!” The barista called out.

 

A brunette moved towards the counter, her back to Alex. The barista pushed a cup and a white bag towards her with an easy smile.

 

“One tall black medium roast coffee and a twice toasted sesame bagel. You have one of the easiest orders to remember in your whole department, Detective.” The barista said, making small talk. “The two dark roast coffee carriers will be ready in a minute. I’ll call your name again when they’re done being filled.”

 

“Thanks, Jon.” The woman said, reaching for her coffee and bagel.

 

Alex thought the voice sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it. She leaned against the wall and pulled her phone out of her pocket, pretending to be interested in whatever articles popped up in the newsfeed. Then the woman turned around and Alex couldn’t have pretended to care about anything else if she had wanted to.

 

It was the woman Alex had run into two days ago. Maggie, was that her name?

 

Maggie met Alex’s gaze, surprised at first and then recognition dawned and a beautiful dimpled smile bloomed on her face. Alex felt her stomach summersault at the sight.

 

_She’s so beautiful,_ Alex thought.

 

“Alex.” Maggie’s voice greeted warmly like they were old friends, “it’s good to see you again.”

 

Alex smiled and opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out. Instead, she was startled by a thud that might’ve been as loud as a gunshot as her phone fell from her grasp onto the hardwood floor. Maggie set her coffee and bagel down on a nearby table and knelt to retrieve the phone at the same time Alex did and their hands brushed as they both grasped the fallen piece of technology in tandem. Both looked up and Alex forgot to breathe for a moment as her eyes again melted into the woman’s warm brown gaze.

 

“I’m sorry, it’s stupid, I don’t know what happened…” Alex sputtered, standing up at the same moment as Maggie, feeling her cheeks color in embarrassment. “I guess I was distracted.”

 

Maggie chuckled, a carefree easy sound that Alex wanted to hear again and grinned, “It’s alright. It happens to everyone. Maybe now you’ll let me buy you that cup of coffee?”

 

Alex smiled despite herself, but she couldn’t look away or speak or even breathe properly. She felt like a teenager all over again. It was like she was being pulled into this woman as if they were one body, like…like gravity. What was wrong with her? To be fair, she’d never felt this way in her life before now.

 

“What’re you having?” Maggie asked, her voice sounded casual, deep and smooth like chocolate.

 

 “I was going to get a t—tall Café Mocha, I guess,” Alex said, the shade of her cheeks darkening as the words came out of her in an undignified rush.

 

Maggie chuckled again and bit her bottom lip in the sexiest gesture Alex had ever seen, regarding Alex as if she was somehow enjoying her flustered babbling, but not in a mean way. If Alex didn’t know any better she would say…Maggie was a little bit in awe of her?

 

 _Me? That’s absurd,_ a tiny negative voice in the back of Alex’s mind scolded. _Who could ever be in awe of you?_

 

It probably was and yet…Alex couldn’t help but hope against hope somehow that Maggie felt the pull of the same force that rendered Alex’s attempts at coherent speech nearly impossible and at the same, drew her into the other woman’s orbit. Time seemed to slow for a moment as Alex fell into dark eyes again shining with a light Alex was sure radiated from Maggie out into the world and not the other way around. Her heart thumped loudly in her ears and she felt her entire body temperature rising.

 

“You alright?”  Maggie asked in a concerned tone, stepping closer and reaching out both hands to touch Alex’s shoulders as if she were afraid the other woman might keel over at any moment.

 

“Ah…yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Alex replied with a hasty smile, coming back to the present. “I just you know…was distracted…again.”

 

Alex shut her mouth, afraid that if she continued to talk everything that came out would be senseless babble.

 

“Uh huh,” Maggie said, unconvinced, but the tone of her voice was light, almost—dare Alex dream--playful.

 

Maggie’s eyes scanned Alex up and down before she smiled again---oh god that smile, that smile was going to be the death of Alex one day of that she was sure—and released Alex’s shoulders as she stepped out of her personal space.

 

“Let’s get some coffee into you. Maybe that’ll perk you up.”

 

Alex reached into her back pocket automatically to retrieve her wallet, but Maggie’s soft hand on her forearm stopped her.

 

“My treat remember?” Skillfully, Maggie guided Alex to the table where she’d set her coffee and bagel and encouraged her to sit down. “Relax here for a moment. I’ll be back in a flash.”

 

With that Alex watched as Maggie sauntered confidently up to the counter and flagged down the barista who’d called out her order earlier. She leaned on the counter pointing up towards menu saying something Alex was too far away to hear. She smiled so charmingly that Alex thought she might be in the process of having a heart attack as her chest tightened and the barista reflected Maggie’s enthusiasm, moving back into work mode. Maggie finished paying and started walking back towards her table and Alex.

 

“So tell me, what does a day in the life of Alex look like?” Maggie asked, taking a seat in the chair across from her.

 

“Danvers,” Alex supplied anxiously without being asked. “My full name is Alex Danvers.”

 

Maggie smiled that wide dimpled smile again, “Danvers. I like it. It suits you. So, what does a day in the life of Alex Danvers look like?”

 

“Uh, you know….pretty normal usually,” Alex uttered, immediately feeling guilt settle in her gut at lying to this woman. There was no reason she should feel bad. She was a top secret government agent after all. It’s not like she could go around every day telling everyone she met about her job, but for some reason lying to Maggie made Alex’s stomach churn uncomfortably. “How about for you? What does a day in the life of Maggie look like?”

 

“Sawyer,” Maggie echoed Alex’s earlier revelation, her eyes travelling up and down Alex’s face curiously before meeting her eyes again. “Maggie Sawyer. I’m a cop so every day is a new kind of crazy. It does have the virtue of never boring though.”

 

“I can imagine,” Alex commented, her expression mirroring Maggie’s own. “If you’re a cop what are you doing in a coffee shop at 10 in the morning? Is it your day off or something?”

 

Maggie opened her mouth to answer, but before she could the barista was shouting out her name from the bar. Maggie excused herself and walked up to the bar juggling what looked to be two heavy coffee carriers in one white fisted grip and Alex’s café mocha in the other.

 

“Your drink, milady,” Maggie said as she handed the coffee cup to Alex.

 

“Thanks,” Alex replied, taking the drink gratefully, blowing on it before taking a sip.

 

Alex was so momentarily engrossed in her mocha that she didn’t realize the dilemma at first, but once she refocused on Maggie again, she realized there was a problem. Maggie had two hands and four things to carry and she was trying to pick up her coffee cup with one hand and then go back down and reach for the bag her bagel was in, but before the imminent spillage became inevitable, Alex scooped up the bagel bag along with her mocha and gripped Maggie’s coffee cup in her free hand so that her fingers was covering Maggie’s unsteady ones.

 

“Here, let me help.” Alex offered.

 

“Danvers, you don’t have to. I can manage—” Maggie protested, but Alex cut her off.

 

“You may be a badass cop, but trust me, even badasses need help from time to time.”

 

Maggie looked into Alex’s eyes—really looked—as if she were trying figure out what made her tick, who she really was, and what her intentions were. Alex felt exposed, but oddly, she wasn’t uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

 

“You win, Danvers,” Maggie relented, letting Alex take the coffee cup from her hand.

 

“I always do,” Alex smirked, feeling confident for the first time since she’d walked into _Noonan’s_ that morning. “Where are you headed?”

 

“To the police station on Morton Ave. It’s only a couple blocks down.”

 

Alex held the door open and Maggie led the way back out onto the sidewalk, slowing her gate so she could fall into step beside Alex.

 

As they walked, they talked, mostly about banal things: likes, dislikes, motorcycles, TV shows they never had the time to watch and working so late into the night that others accused them of being workaholics. They ruminated about the day, the weather, popular scientific breakthroughs (Alex’s contribution), and even about the topic of aliens from other planets living among human (Maggie’s doing).

 

“Your ex is a Roltikkon?!” Alex exclaimed so enthusiastically that she garnered a couple of odd looks from passersby. “I've read Roltikkon can form telepathic connections by making physical contact with the dorsum of the tongue.”

 

“Yeah, incidentally that’s how she learned English,” Maggie said winking conspiratorially at Alex who immediately blushed, but didn’t shy away from the other woman’s gaze. “For the record I don’t strictly date aliens, but I do like them more than most humans.”

 

“Why?” popped out of Alex’s mouth before her brain had time to stop it. Alex was never one who was interested in the personal lives of other, except for Kara, but that’s because Kara told her and Kara was Kara.

 

Maggie sighed, but answered the question honestly even though Alex sensed her hesitation.

 

“Growing up a non-white, non-straight girl in Blue Springs, Nebraska... might as well have been from Mars. I was an outcast and felt like it. Our alien neighbors, they’re no different. Most of them are hardworking immigrants or refugees just trying to get by. They shouldn’t be punished for that, you know?”

 

“They have to hide who they are in order to survive. I can sympathize with that.”

 

A heavy silence between them followed. Alex felt Maggie’s demeanor change as the easy smile slipped off of her face and she shoved her hands into her pockets as if she was folding in on herself. Suddenly, Alex felt responsible for the heavy atmosphere lingering between them like a dense fog. Who am I to pry into her personal life? Everyone has things that’ve happened to them that they’d like to forget. Growing up like she did, so different and exposed in a small town in the middle of mostly farmland, Alex felt a swell of pride flare up in her chest for Maggie. Here was this brave, brave woman who had likely survived some pretty terrible things and all just because she was different.

 

 _This amazing woman_ , Alex thought, _so tough and so beautiful._

 

“You’re amazing, Sawyer, you know that,” Alex said, smiling at Maggie beside her and nudging her playfully with her smile.

 

Maggie’s glum demeanor evaporated immediately and Alex’s favorite smile spread across Maggie’s face.

 

“Aw, Danvers, you’re making me blush. Thank you.” Maggie teased, looking at Alex as if she’d just discovered something new about her. Something important, but Alex couldn’t imagine what that something would have been.

 

Alex’s heart fluttered in her chest as her brain caught up with what she’d said. _Where did that come from?_ Alex wondered _I mean she is amazing and tough and, brave, but why am I thinking of her like…like I like her. No, nope, nope don’t like her!! At least not like that. I’m straight. I’ve dated guys, albeit not recently, but that doesn’t mean anything. What if I’m not? What would mom think if I…No, I’m straight and I always have been. Damn it, Alex, get ahold of yourself!_

“Hey Danvers, we’re here. Danvers?”

 

Maggie’s voice pulled Alex out of her self-depreciative musings so quickly that she started, wide eyed and breathing harder than she had been before.

 

“Danvers? You okay? You look like you saw a ghost or something,” Maggie stepped up to the building, set the coffee carriers on the stoop of the police station, and for the second time that day she stepped into Alex’s personal space and gripped her shoulders loosely, staring up into her eyes.

 

Alex took a deep breath and tried to steady herself, but she felt shaky. Like she hadn’t eaten anything that day. Maggie must have sensed that she was unwell because she immediately took the coffees from Alex’s hands, set them on the concrete, and led Alex over to one of the steps to sit down. They sat side by side without saying anything at first. Alex just breathing and Maggie watching her for signs of distress.

 

Finally, Maggie took one of Alex’s hands and held it. Alex looked at her and that’s when Maggie saw it. Fear. This woman wasn’t just afraid she was _terrified_ of something.

 

“Alex.” Maggie said in a soft, soothing tone while running one of her thumbs along the back of Alex’s hand. “I know we don’t know one another that well. You don’t have to tell me what you’re going through, but I’m right here just the same.”

 

Alex sucked in a breath so deep it felt like her lungs could burst from the pressure and then she let it out. The last of her anxiety went out with it and she became conscious of Maggie’s hand cradling hers. The warmth radiating from Maggie’s gentle grasp made Alex feel safe, understood, and somehow anchored.

 

“I’m right here,” Maggie repeated, giving Alex’s hand a little squeeze. “How’re you feeling? Better?”

 

Alex nodded and exhaled another breath. Beside them, two uniformed police officers climbed up the steps, nodding to Maggie. Immediately, Alex pulled her hand from Maggie’s and stuck it into her pocket. Maggie noticed the knee jerk reaction and she thought she might know why, but she’d lived long enough to know better than to go around assuming things about people. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a card, and handed it over to Alex.

 

“This is my card and there’s my personal number. If you ever want to talk or need something or just want someone to play pool with on the weekend, give me a ring, okay?”

 

Alex gave a humorless chuckle, “You think I’m a mess. Don’t you?”

 

“No, I think you’re human.”  Maggie said, staring straight into her eyes. From any other stranger, Alex would have cried that statement off as bullshit, but not from Maggie. “And everyone needs to let off some steam or lose their cool every once in a while. Because life is hard and it’s unfair and no one deserves to go through it alone.”

 

Maggie was aware of the irony of that statement given her own unusual circumstances, but she brushed it off, instead deciding to focus on Alex. This is about Alex, not her.

“I…uh…I should get going,” Alex said, standing up quickly. “I need to get back to work.”

 

The words coming from Alex’s lips sounded and felt hollow, but she didn’t feel like she had the strength to stop them. She reached for her coffee and stood up, looking at Maggie.

 

“Thanks for the coffee,” Alex said, smiling dimly. “It more than makes up for the other day.”

 

“Anytime, Danvers,” Maggie said, standing up and taking a few steps towards Alex.

 

“I really have to go now, I’m sorry.” And with that Alex put her head down and walked straight back to the DEO. When she finally set foot in the lobby of the government building, she reached in her coat pocket where she’d hastily stuffed the card Maggie had given her.

 

“Detective Maggie Sawyer, NCPD Science Division,” Alex read out loud.

 

Quieting the negative thoughts resurfacing in her mind, Alex stuffed the card back into her pocket with her phone and marched back to the med lab, doggedly determined to put the beautiful and amazing Maggie Sawyer out of her thoughts so she could get at least some work done in the day that was remaining.

* * *

TBC

 


	4. Another Fateful Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! For starters, I want to apologize profusely for how long this chapter took to be written. It’s long, it took a lot of research, but most of the time in between was spent dealing with real life things and—though that is sometimes unavoidable—I want to keep up the momentum with consistent updates in the future. Wish me luck. I’ve done extensive research on this time period and some very interesting—lesser known—women of history. I name drop a lot of historic lesbians from the early 20th century in this story and add a lot of history from my personal research, but as fun as that all was, I really hope it adds to the story and doesn’t take away from it. Lastly—just a head’s up—this chapter explores part of Maggie’s first year spent in Gotham as a cop and also mentions a few of her past lovers at certain points. I’ve based Maggie’s observational methods and dogged characterization to see real justice done on a real life woman from the early 1900s whose extraordinary life has been mostly lost to history because she took on a lot of powerful people in government and made a lot of powerful enemies in the process. She was a lawyer who turned into a detective because she didn’t trust the police. She was the first woman Special Investigator to the NYPD that I know of. She brought about the biggest corruption investigation into the ranks of the NYPD and also became the first woman Special Assistant United States Attorney. That remarkable woman is Mary Grace Humiston and I encourage each and every one of you to read up on her if you can. She saved two alleged murderers from death row by solving those cases without the aid of the police. That’s it for my fangirl ramblings. 
> 
> Thanks for listening to my PSA and enjoy the read!!

_Gotham City—April 1915_

Maggie had thought all she’d have to do when they got the GCPD headquarters was to give her witness statement. She’d thought she’d be allowed to return to the construction site for her truck and at least manage to make _one_ of her deliveries on time afterwards.

 

She’d thought wrong. Very, very wrong.

 

After Maggie had filled out and signed the form Detective Bartlett had given her regarding the events of that morning, she’d been strong-armed on her way out of the station by Lt. Cornwell and pushed into a room with concrete walls and only two gas lamps on either side of the doorframe. The rest of the room was cast in the lamps’ faint orange glow that was barely bright enough to read a piece of paper right in front of your face. She’d yanked her arm back from Cornwell at the first opportunity and been directed into a chair. She’d refused to sit at first, but Cornwell had threatened to throw her in a holding cell for “obstructing justice” and refusing to cooperate with law enforcement.

 

At that, Maggie had sat down and crossed her arms defiantly over her chest. That was when the real farce had begun.

 

At first, Maggie had almost chuckled at how stupid Cornwell must’ve been to suspect her, then she’d grown bored and frustrated at the same questions being repeated and now—ten minutes later—she was beyond pissed off. Because not only was this nincompoop wasting her time and putting her job on the line, he was obviously trying to get her to confess to something incriminating so he could frame her and thereby get credit for solving the case.

 

What was worse was how Cornwell looked at her. Most men had two approaches to attractive women: the first one was to use persistent sweetness—as they saw it—to get an attractive woman to submit to them. The latter—far more dangerous approach in Maggie’s opinion—was to be straightforwardly aggressive, viewing beautiful women as something a man had the right to take and own simply by virtue of his manliness.

 

Cornwell was a master of the second approach and the way he leaned back in his chair and his eyes took in her features as if he wanted to hurt her and have her at the same time. He looked at her like he thought she was nothing by a thing, not a person and that set off warning bells in Maggie right away. Her arms tightened across her chest and her feet stayed directly beneath her under the chair just in case she needed to get up and go quickly. Maggie’s mind warned her to stay calm. _No fighting and no fleeing_ , it repeated on a loop, because if she did either, Cornwell could use her actions as proof of complicit guilt in the “crime” she’d unwittingly stumbled into or something worse.

 

A crime it had been to bury a child’s body on public property, but a murder it wasn’t.

 

In 1915, two-hundred and seven Gothamites had been murdered by shooting or stabbing, three-hundred city residents had lost their lives to automobile accidents. Another two-hundred-fifty had committed suicide and—most alarming of all—over eight-hundred Gothamites had died of poisoning including not only murders with malicious intent, but also accidental poisoning by things such as overdoses of the arsenic used in cosmetic creams and fumigations of buildings that had not been properly evacuated beforehand—and those were just the ones the city knew about.

 

These statics became known to Maggie over time as she made more friends who worked for both the City records office and friends who wrote for newspapers and periodicals who liked to sensationalize the multiple deaths that took place daily in the city of four million people—hundreds of whom continued to arrive each day by boat from Europe and the Old World. But no matter how she’d tried to separate herself from it, the forensic studies Maggie had abandoned in Paris hadn’t left her and her constant curiosity about who died, what killed them etc. put those friends to task.

 

She’d ask day in and day out, what her friends knew about each crime they filed reports for or wrote upon. Questions like what the police knew, what the evidence was, and so on and so on until one or another of her friends would refuse to tell her anymore about it. Her ceaseless pestering would often end in a heated exclamation to the effect of, “Why the hell do you care about any of this?! You drive a damn gravel truck!”

 

Why did Maggie care about the crimes that happened every day in the city? Or how many went unsolved?

 

Gotham was not the biggest city Maggie had ever lived in, but it was the most ramshackle. European cities like London and Paris had their own growing pains: entire districts filled to the brim with crowded tenements, babies born so often and in such poverty that it wasn’t uncommon to see them left to die in gutters, and more piss and shit in the streets than there was fresh water for the inhabitants to drink. As much as every single one of those things had sickened her, for Maggie it was somehow worse to come back to her home country and see the same indifference to human suffering. She hadn’t been born yesterday. Maggie knew better than to think that everyone was a decent human being. Being run out of Blue Springs had killed that hope in her. Still, Maggie had hoped things would get better, but—if anything—they were getting worse.

 

She hadn’t been in Gotham that long, but somehow Maggie felt like Gotham was her city. She belonged here and it was up to her to bring what she’d learned to the law enforcement community here who didn’t really believe in the power of forensics like their counterparts overseas and had only just formed their first Toxicology lab and Medical Examiner’s office 6 months before Maggie had arrived.

 

Part of her had come here to make a difference, but the other part of Maggie just wanted to get out of this fucking police station and pummel this jackass to death!!

 

Still, Maggie had come to the conclusion on her own on the ride over to Gotham Central that the little kid she’d found had died of Carbon Monoxide poisoning—which actually happened every day as Carbon Monoxide was a key ingredient in the gas that lit people’s homes, burned in their radiators, and provided their stoves with fire to cook their meals.

 

All it took was turning the gas on, opening the oven door to light the pilot light, and getting distracted thus allowing the gas to permeate the apartment. The most obvious thing about Carbon Monoxide deaths other than that they were common was that there was little glory in solving them, documenting them, or reporting on them. Maggie had heard that years before the appointment of the first Medical Examiner in the city, coroners—who never had any scientific clout and were hand chosen by the mayor based on loyalty—would destroy vital evidence, write up a shoddy report and refuse to give the body over to the deceased’s relatives unless they chose a funeral home that paid the coroner under the table for every body he brought in.  Sometimes coroners even sold ‘Cause of Death’—recording the way a person’s family wished them to be known to die and submitting it as official for a hefty bribe.

 

Although, the child’s death wasn’t murder or manslaughter as Maggie imagined the block headed Lieutenant was angling for, it was still accessory to an actual crime. The real crime according to city law was that someone had tried to conceal the child’s death by burying the body illegally on private property and trespassing to do it. But, if the way Cornwell was treating her was any indication, Maggie imagined no one would listen to her conclusions and some poor bastard out there was going to be proclaimed guilty and strapped down into the new electric chair at Blackgate Mayor Cobblepot was so proud of.

 

It wouldn’t be her. Maggie was determined. Life could be hellish, but it was still hers to do with as she pleased until her last breath, pompous lazy detective assholes be damned. Maggie sucked in a deep breath and tried to keep her skin from crawling as Conwell’s gaze swept over her body again—most of her curves gratefully hidden by the work overalls she wore.

 

“Foreman on the site said you didn’t look that upset for a dame,” Cornwell stated, lighting the cigarette he was holding between his teeth with a match from his pocket. He took a few drags and the already dim light around them became hazy with smoke. “He and a number of construction workers around you said you knelt by the girl and just marched off, no tears, no pitiable wailing, or fainting. The only conclusions I can come to for that is that you are either not really a member of the weaker sex and you’re hiding a prick somewhere in those overalls of yours or you had something to do with the crime being committed and therefore you weren’t affected because you already knew what you’d find.”

 

“Those two things are mutually exclusive,” Maggie countered. Cornwell’s expression quickly turned blank and the cigarette drooped from his lips in confusion. He didn’t understand the phrase, Maggie realized. With more patience than she felt, Maggie continued. “Meaning that one thing doesn’t logically lead to the other. Lack of crying is circumstantial. It doesn’t support or belittle the committing of a crime. I didn’t cry because I’ve lived in a handful of cities in the United States and Europe. I’ve witnessed the cruelty people visit upon themselves no matter what language they speak or what part of the world they’re from. For that reason, I’ve hardened my heart. Crying doesn’t come easily to me.”

 

 _After losing Eliza and Aunt Tilda_ , Maggie thought to herself. In a strange act of courage, Maggie met the detective’s eyes and held them as if saying ‘two can play this game.’

 

“And you just happened to know where the body was buried and how the child died? That’s awfully coincidental, _Miss_ Sawyer, and if life’s taught me anything it’s that there are no coincidences where a crime is concerned, _Miss Sawyer_ , if I’m even guessing your sex correctly.” Cornwell said again, the note of righteous superiority clear in his voice.

 

The detective hissed her name every time he spoke, his features screwing into an expression of disgust—as though merely saying Maggie’s name left a bad taste in his mouth. The feeling was most assuredly mutual and it was time Maggie fought back.

 

“I’ve told you, I was making deliveries of gravel because it’s _my job_ and I’ll tell you again that I didn’t know where the body was buried, I simply called out to anyone who would listen for a place to put the fucking gravel and noticed all the workers huddled in a corner of the yard. And once again—just in case none of this soaked into primitive rodent brain the first twenty times I told it to you—I only estimated that the child’s death was due to Carbon Monoxide poisoning because I studied medicine abroad. I’m not even a cop and still I noticed more than you, _Lieutenant,_ and I think you’re determined to frame me for this because you’re jealous you can’t even solve a real crime on your own. You’re the type who’s risen through the ranks kissing the asses of your betters or maybe doing a little more than kissing? I’d bet my life that the title of Lieutenant definitely wouldn’t have come without the price of a little pillow biting. Wonder what the move to Captain will cost you?"

 

Cornwell’s cheeks colored, his jaw tightened, and his teeth grit together as he lashed out across the table at her, but Maggie’s instincts saved her—alerting her that she’d gone too far almost as soon as the words had left her mouth—and she’d pushed back from the table, sliding the wooden chair across the concrete and out of the Lieutenant’s reach.

 

“You smug bitch!” Cornwell exclaimed, standing and holding the whole of his weight on his closed fists on the tabletop and looming far above Maggie. “I’m the detective here! I ask the questions and I determine if your answers make sense or if they’re a crock of shit or not and I say they are! You’re hiding something and I’m going to get it out of you so help me God! You’re lucky I don’t kick you in the box and bend you over this table like you deserve, you fucking Dyke!”

 

Dyke.

 

That word always seemed to come from an angry man’s mouth and Maggie loathed the sound of it. She wanted to shout back at him. To stand up, kick him in the family jewels, and punch him until her knuckles were a bloody mess, but instead, Maggie gritted her teeth together and remained on high alert. She shouldn’t have antagonized him. She knew better than that. She’d always knew better before she’d done in the past, but it’d never stopped her.

 

Maggie thought of Eva Le Gallienne—the first woman her age she’d had a meaningful relationship with. Eva had been gorgeous, full of life, and so, so brave. Those were the qualities that had caused Maggie to fall in love with her and—according to Eva—vice versa. Eva was an actress. Maggie had first seen her in a production of _Monna Vanna_ while Eva was in drama school and she’d snuck backstage afterwards to convince Eva into going to dinner with her.

 

The six months they’d spent together before Eva had broken off the relationship to begin her career in New York had been magical and—bluntly revealing. The older Sapphic’s in Aunt Tilda’s circle had always doted on Maggie. Renée Vivien had written a love poem for Maggie on her sixteenth birthday that had made her entire face turn the color of a cherry tomato. Isadora Duncan had Maggie’s first suit of man’s clothes tailored to her measurements—which Duncan boasted she knew intimately.

 

Even Eleonora Duse during a summer in Paris, had invited Maggie on an outing to the Lourvre Museum and proclaimed that none of the portraits were as elegant and alluring as Maggie was not even the Mona Lisa. All of these women commented on her charm and beauty with the ease of practiced lovers because they _wanted_ _to be_ _her_ lover. Eva was different. She’d never pandered to Maggie or flattered her, she was honest, even to the point of pain and she’d told Maggie on a number of occasions that Maggie’s temper and penchant for getting herself into dangerous situations would be the end of her and for Maggie’s part, she really hoped that end wasn’t now.

 

After what felt like an eternity, Cornwell dropped back down in his chair, fixing Maggie with a malicious glare. Cornwell’s beady black eyes disturbed Maggie as much as his vehemence towards her did. Were they in a different setting—on the street or in a pool hall—Maggie was certain he would have tried to lay a beating down on her. Even here—in this interrogation room where there was no one by the two of them—Maggie should have been terrified, but her nerves took a backseat to the anger swelling in her chest at how she was being treated.

 

The interrogation went on in the same vein for another few minutes until Maggie was sure she wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to throttle Cornwell anymore and be sent to rot on Blackgate Island or to that new sanatorium the newspapers claimed Amadeus Arkham intended to build on his family estate. What made the instinct harder to push down was the superior smirk on the Detective’s face as if he’d already won their little word battle. He was trying to deliberately bait her, either into saying what he wanted to hear or into running from the room so he could claim her guilt, neither of which Maggie felt particularly inclined to let him do.

 

“I’ve told you _repeatedly_ ,” Maggie answered, emphasizing the word in a practiced false polite tone, before continuing on not as brazenly as before. “I came to make a delivery of gravel, I stepped out of the truck to ask where it was supposed to go, and I saw workers milling around the body in the dirt. I don’t know anything else!”

 

“That’s exactly what someone who knew something and wanted to hide it because it meant they would be complicit in a crime would say,” Cornwell said as he scribbled on the front page of his police notebook.

 

His current actions resembled those of a bored schoolboy drawing in his composition book, but that was exactly what he wanted her to think Maggie suspected. Her intuition proved right when Cornwell’s hand stopped moving and his hollow eyes lifted to meet hers. This man was a bully who was used to getting what he wanted from everyone especially from women.

 

This man was also no Artie Wainwright. Artie’s jibs and exaggerated mocking of the other students in their one room schoolhouse had seemed terrible back then, but he was a boy who only bothered to insult you until it didn’t please him any longer and then he would let you go. Detective Cornwell, however, looked at her like he was a man who could choke the living breath out of a grudge, and right now Maggie’s very existence was offensive to him and he looked determined to make her pay for that.

 

 _Personal grudges_ , Maggie thought leaning back in her chair in a mock casual manner so as to put more distance between herself and the man who would have no qualms about hurting her at any further provocation. _Was it little wonder that so many crimes went unsolved in the city when morons like this guy demanded answers to the wrong questions from the wrong people just so he could get recognition for solving a child “murder” case?_

Just when Maggie thought she would have to risk bolting from the room so she would have a fighting chance at being able to live out the rest of her life, the door to the interrogation room burst open. In walked a sheepish looking Detective Bartlett and two other men Maggie didn’t recognize with sour expressions darkening their faces.

 

“Lieutenant! What is the meaning of this?!” The youngest stranger bellowed.

 

Both of the men Maggie didn’t recognize were very different from one another. The one who’d shouted was moderately tall, had a slim perhaps athletic build, topped with a blocky face, and a pair of pince-nez spectacles balancing above a bushy brown mustache. He also had a head of oiled dark hair that parted in the middle. He couldn’t have been that much older than Maggie herself and yet she got the impression from how he carried himself that he was someone in a position of power over all those gathered around them.

 

“Commissioner Gordon, I can explain. You see, I was just interrogating—,“ Cornwell started, standing from his chair and smoothing his hands nervously over his suit jacket.

 

The younger man didn’t allow the detective finish.

 

“A witness, Detective Bartlett tells me. I was in your captain’s office when he came running in like a chicken with his head cut off and informed us that you’d fallen off of your rocker,” The Commissioner stated, his arms clasped behind his back in the stance of an at ease solder despite his obvious ire. "Read my lips, Cornwell: We. Do. Not. Interrogate. Or. Detain. Witnesses against their will!”

 

Cornwell looked at Maggie out of the corner of his eyes and she was sure he was trying to figure out a lie that would get him out of this maybe even blame the incident on Maggie saying she attacked him and he figured that to be evidence of guilt or that he hadn’t interviewed her against her will, but whatever his improbable excuse would be, David Cornwell didn’t get to use it.

 

“Damn it all to hell!” the Commissioner continued fuming, his arms now at his side as he began to pace back and forth in front of the doorway. “I don’t need this type of horseshit from a senior officer in my own precinct. I’ve got enough trouble with Governor Murray breathing down my neck about keeping up with progress in the criminal justice systems in New York and Metropolis and now this!”

 

Suddenly, the Commissioner turned midstride and pointed one authoritative finger at Detective Cornwell’s chest.

 

“This illegal interrogation ends now, understood, Lieutenant?” he said, the tone of his voice letting all present know that this was the end of the matter.

 

“Yes, sir,” Detective Cornwell’s posture immediately straightened like someone had shoved a broomstick up his ass and into his spinal cord. For a moment, she thought he was going to salute and kick his heels together like a little boy playing at soldiery, but he didn’t. Instead, he appeared defiantly humbled, struggling against the shame the Commissioner insisted he feel.

 

 _Maybe it’ll bring a positive change to his character_ , Maggie mused.

 

“You’re suspended for the time being,” Commissioner Gordon said, as easily and calmly as if he were teaching someone how to properly fold socks or remake a bed after it has been untidied by sleep. “You’re dismissed for now, Lieutenant.”

 

All deference seemed to bleed out of Cornwell’s body with those words. His shoulders hunched in over his chest defensively and the hands at his sides clenched into reflexive fists.

 

“Sir, I may have been out of line, but that woman—if you can call a filthy degenerate parading around in men’s clothes a woman—is a dangerous creature.” Cornwell argued heatedly. “I brought her into interrogation because I had a hunch that she knew more than she was saying. I was only doing what I thought to be right—”

 

“Your job is what the law says it is! Obedience of the law is demanded not asked as a favor. It is especially required of those who serve it like you and like me. We must uphold the rules that govern our own conduct or we cannot demand the same from our citizens. Now, go, Lieutenant, before I demote you.”

 

For a minute, Cornwell just stood there, slack jawed. Then his jaw clenched shut and he stomped passed Commissioner Gordon out of the room.

 

Once it was just the four of them left, Commissioner Gordon’s stern gaze fell on Maggie and lost its severity. All of the sudden, he released a deep breath and it was like his entire body was so exhausted that standing upright was difficult. In the dim glow of the room, the Commissioner looked fifty years older than he actually was.

 

“My name is Jeremiah Gordon, Commissioner of the Police of the City and County of Gotham.” Gordon said, his voice even and calm as he held out a hand to Maggie to shake. “I apologize for the conduct of my officer, Miss Sawyer. And for wasting so much of your time. Rest assured, your boss has been contacted and you have been given the rest of the work day off. Another driver has been sent to continue your deliveries. Now that we’ve finished with the formalities, however, I am afraid I must ask for your indulgence and another moment of your time. This talk will only take a moment and I promise that it won’t consist of meaningless questions or bullying. Would you kindly converse with me and Detective Bartlett in private?”

 

Maggie wanted to shout ‘No!’ but the anger simmering in her chest refused to morph itself into words, insisting on burning itself out in her belly like an oven pilot light. She rolled her eyes, but nodded her assent and Gordon turned to the only other man in the room Maggie didn’t know. Though an older man, probably in his middle fifties, he was taller than the Commissioner and bulkier. His face was weathered—showing the ravages of age and stress from a lifetime of chasing criminals on the streets. His gray hair was combed back against his head with pomade and he had a matching moustache with burnsides on his cheeks.

 

“I will need the use of your office, Captain,” Gordon said.

 

The older man nodded his ham hock head, “Of course, sir.”

 

“Shall we?” Gordon asked gesturing to the still open door. When Maggie didn’t move he continued, “Ladies first.”

 

Maggie sighed, stood, and led the way out of the interrogation room.

 

OOOOOOOO

 

The only sounds in the Captain’s office were those of the ticking of the oak wall clock and the pendulum below as it swung back and forth inside of its glass belly to an intimidating rhythm. Then Commissioner Gordon finally began, clearing his throat.

 

“Detective Bartlett tells me that you have a…unique set of skills not common to most women and—indeed—to most men. Is this true?” The Commissioner asked curiously from behind the captain’s desk.

 

His hands were entwined professionally on top of the polished dark walnut and behind the seated Commissioner stood Detective Bartlett, eyes anxiously flitting all over the room and avoiding Maggie as if she were not present. Despite his apparent lack of focus, when Maggie shot Bartlett a pissed off glare for making her personal business public without her permission, he met her eyes and looked somewhat ashamed of himself. No matter what she did to him, however, the cat was out of the bag and Maggie would be damned if she backed down now, even though she was so tired and irritated from the events of the day that all she wanted to do at that moment was just go home to her shitty apartment, guzzle down the fifth of Pendleton Rye tucked under her mattress, and collapse onto her lumpy cot by the gas cooking stove in her kitchen and never wake up again.

 

“That’s true,” Maggie admitted, quiet and subdued.

 

Gordon nodded and continued, “He also tells me you mentioned that these skills of yours were taught to you at University abroad?”

 

“Yes. I studied legal medicine and criminology first at the University of Lyon under Dr. Alexandre Lacassagne,” Maggie explained slowly, trying to say only what was necessary, nothing more. The exhaustion in her voice was palpable, yet if Gordon noticed it, he showed no sign. “Then I attended lectures for a summer at the London School of Medicine for Women, thinking that I may want to finish out my education there, but my aunt and her friends lived on the Left Bank in Paris so I relocated to the University of Paris to study pathology until my aunt died a few years later. I stayed in the city until the German army advanced through Belgium. Then, while Antwerp was being bombarded into nothing, I figured I would cut my losses and sail back to the States.”  

 

Gordon nodded, thinking as he took in every word Maggie said. There was a tense pause that followed immediately in the wake of Maggie’s words that she didn’t know how to interpret. Then Gordon started speaking again, this time his voice was professional and clear.

 

“You know, after I graduated from university, I decided to go on a Grand Tour of the old empires. I loved every city I went to, but I didn’t just go there to take in the sites. I spent a year in London observing how Scotland Yard was run and organized and I vowed right then and there that I would rise to a high enough rank in the Police Services to implement those improvements in my home city. And I did.”

 

Maggie’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, but aside from that her expression remained indifferent.

 

“Good for you?” Maggie ventured, not sure what to say to that or if she even should say anything.

 

Gordon gave her a grim smile beneath his bushy moustache and continued.

 

“One of my ancestors was Captain Jon Logerquist, the Norwegian soldier who settled the original city site in the 1600s and since then the members of my family have always…assumed a certain amount of responsibility for the welfare of Gotham and all of its citizens. My father taught me and my siblings that it is the duty of every man, woman, and child to improve the community in which they live. I’m not telling you this because I want you to see me in a good light, but because I believe we are kindred spirits in this respect, you and I, and I would like to give you the opportunity to aide your community in a unique way.”

 

Maggie’s eyes narrowed, but on the inside she was equal parts apprehensive and befuddled. _What does he mean by opportunity?_ She wondered, _I might have a degree, but I’m not licensed to practice medicine in the States and he already has enough blockheads patrolling the streets so I can’t imagine where I’d  otherwise fit into the plan of a Police Commissioner._

“In what way?” Maggie inquired, folding her hands in her lap.

 

“The Police departments of London, New York City, and Metropolis have begun hiring women into their ranks. Now, from what I’ve heard and seen, this practice hasn’t impeded the course of justice, but improved it greatly. More criminals are being brought to justice because new and varied ways of thinking have been brought to the table by adding educated women and new technologies to law enforcement positions. I would like to hire you for such a purpose though I believe it would be prudent for both of us to name you as a special investigator to the Gotham Police Department first. Then once you prove your mettle so to speak, I will officially announce you as a properly hired officer of the GCPD.

 

The commissioner paused again to pull two tumbler glasses from one of the desk’s drawers just as Bartlett—whom Maggie hadn’t seen move in the first place—set a full pitcher of water down beside them. Gordon poured himself a glass and then poured one for Maggie, setting it near the far edge of the desk. Once he’d had a drink, he continued his pitch.

 “I’m not going to sugarcoat things for you, Miss. Sawyer. This job is dangerous. Rookies die every day in slums and alleyways run over by cars or gutted by riffraff. Patrol officers work long hours and officers in the brass hardly ever see their families in daylight. Also—as I’m sure you are aware—some of the more conservative officers in my department are hostile to the thought and, I fear, the reality of a woman not fulfilling her ‘natural duties,’ and working what would usually be considered a man’s job instead. No matter how hard you work or how many cases you solve, I cannot guarantee you that this attitude will change if you do choose to join us, but I can guarantee that I will defend you so long as you uphold the law. I can also guarantee that you will be in a position to protect and serve the people of this city no matter what their stripe or how much money is in their bank accounts. You can advocate for the little guy or girl that this city shits on every damn day. Will you join me in changing Gotham for the better?”

 

Maggie broke eye contact with Gordon. She couldn’t think with his insisting gaze in her head.

 

Was this something she could do? Was this something she even wanted? Maggie had never known what she was going to do with her life, she’d just known that she wasn’t going to marry a man, settle down, and have children like society expected her to do. Knowing what she didn’t want, Maggie had been influenced by the women around her, financially independent friends of her Aunt Tilda’s, romantic lovers, and hopeful school acquaintances.

 

One day not long after arriving in Europe, Maggie and a few school friends had been out riding their bicycles down a dirt lane. The pathway stretched from a country road down towards a stream and continued on. However, there’d been no bridge to connect the ways, so Maggie and her friends had dared one another to jump the stream. Prin had made it without a hitch, so had Alice and Maggie, but when Nellie’s turn came, she hadn’t built up enough momentum to quite make it.

 

Nellie’s front wheel had crashed into the upraised bank on the opposite side and she’d fallen into the ditch that held the narrow stream, hitting her head on a log of rotting oak. Prin had screamed, Alice had gone pale and shaky, and Maggie had immediately leapt down into the stream beside a prone Nellie. When Maggie rolled her over, Nellie’s face from temple to jawline was running with bright red blood. Maggie hadn’t hesitated. She’d pulled a scarf from her side satchel and wrapped the soft wool around Nellie’s head slowly and carefully. The sight of the blood hadn’t slowed her when she’d lifted Nellie out of the ankle deep water and she’d been able to take the lead back to the home Nellie shared with her parents in the city.

 

Because Maggie wasn’t bothered by the sight of blood or gore and because she generally liked science, her Aunt had suggested she look into the field of medicine to continue her studies. _You could be a younger, more attractive version of Florence Nightingale_ , Tilda had told her once with a wink. So Maggie had taken up the study of medicine. However, after learning about the capture and trial of the notorious Dr. Crippen—an American doctor who’d murdered his wife—and of how pathologist Bernard Spilsbury had used forensic evidence to identify the remains found in Crippen’s basement as belonging to his wife a few years earlier, Maggie had decided that was the route she wanted to take.

 

Whether it was because of her experiences in Blue Springs or just an innate part of her being, Maggie wanted to rid society of people who preyed upon others like predators because it gave them pleasure to hurt and degrade others. She’d thought during her secondary and university school days that she’d become a pathologist like Bernard Spilsbury. She’d daydreamed day in and day out about helping the police put away more Dr. Crippens and Frederick Seddons before she’d finally let that dream die.

 

However, Maggie had never considered that she could become a policewoman and solve the crimes and arrest the criminals herself. Thinking of it now, it seemed like such an abstract concept as opposed to a possible reality because she’d never actually seen a policewoman in all of her travels. Maggie didn’t have a point of reference for what that would look like or how much she’d be able to truly help and advocate for people—especially for the people like her.

 

To be honest though, Maggie found that she was ready to find out. What could be the worst that could happen?

 

“When can I start?”

 

OOOOOOO

 

_National City—August 2016_

 

Maggie sipped at her mug of coffee, re-reading the same couple of sentences in the police report.

 

_… Young female of indeterminate age. Victim thought asphyxiated by soft surface like the pillow found underneath the head of the body.  Blue viscous fluid dried over wounds on backside. Fluid type unknown..._

Feeling wrung out, she closed the top of the manila folder over the papers and set her coffee cup down so she could rub at her eyes with the heels of her hands. She’d have to talk to some of her rookies about making sure they follow proper protocol while filing reports. This one hadn’t bothered to include his badge number and the language he’d used describing the scene he’d found—though detailed—was too subjective.

 

Suppositions of the cause of death and—in this case—even the species of the victim couldn’t be fully collaborated until the M.E. did a postmortem examination. Maggie wouldn’t be too hard on her rookies though. She knew through years upon years of law enforcement work in nearly every city she’d run to and ever identity she’d lived under, that police education—though it had come very far—wasn’t standardized as well as it should be. Rookies observed their superiors like their T.O.’s or detectives in their units and picked up on their bad habits.

 

Speaking of.

 

Maggie dropped her hands to the desktop and looked over at the clock on the wall across from her in the bullpen. She’d been on the job since 9:00 a.m. the previous morning until—well—7:30 a.m. this morning rounding out a 21 hour shift. So much for living her life instead of surviving. She should go home and try to get some rest. Just as the thought left her mind, the telephone on her desk rang. _Or not_ , Maggie thought, reaching for the headset and bringing it up to her ear.

 

“Sawyer,” she answered stifling a yawn.

 

“Hi, Mags. It’s Joan from reception. There’s someone here to see you.”

 

“Did they state who they were and why they’re asking for me?” Maggie asked, trying to shake away the veil of fatigue covering her senses.

 

“Uh, yes, her name is Ms. Bette Kane and she says she’s a lawyer from the firm of Kane, Power, & Spencer. She said she’s here to make sure you eat at least one full meal before you keel over.” 

 

Maggie chuckled and rubbed her eyes with her hand again.

 

“Tell her I’ll be right down,” Maggie sighed. Then added with humor before she hung up, “And Joan? Be careful. She does bite.”

 

When she arrived in the lobby, clad in her usual black leather jacket and the same Henley and dark jeans she’d picked out of her closet yesterday, the apparently older blonde woman’s green eyes narrowed at her.

 

“Still running the ticker tape at both ends I see,” Bette commented, disapproving.

 

Bette was in her late 30s and a couple of inches taller than Maggie as well as being several steps above her on the snarky scale. She was the grand-niece of the late Kate Kane and the executor of the estate and profits thereof she had left Maggie which the detective had been living off in part for the last fifty-six years or so. Being biologically immortal—as it turns out—was a legal pain in the ass. New identities had to be assumed every so many decades when Maggie failed to appear to age and those lives had to be abandoned. She had to start over from the beginning with a new name, new SSN, and new fictitious life story that would be collaborated by digitally fabricated and backdated documents provided by Bette. Then the same estate would have to be transferred from Maggie’s old identity—usually being willed or bequeathed in absentia to the new identity. It was a mess—one which Maggie was glad she didn’t have to manage alone.

 

But as amazing of an executor as Bette was, she was a better friend.

 

Maggie had outlived all of her family both blood relatives and otherwise. She’d had numerous surnames and had only been able to return to her original name once it was confirmed by Bette that her little brother’s great-great-grandson had passed away and the Sawyer family had died out in Blue Springs, Nebraska. Since then, she’d reinvented herself—this time reconciling herself to almost complete isolation. To be fair, Maggie had lived for so long that she’d thought she’d outlived the need for friends and close relationships, but Bette was constantly reminding her that she had people who cared what became of her and she enforced that truth by occasionally stopping by Maggie’s current place of work and encouraging her—sometimes with legal threats as incentives—to take care of herself like a normal person.

 

“Have you eaten anything in the last 21 hours?” Bette asked in that professional prosecutor’s tone that she used whenever she had to go into a courtroom. When Maggie didn’t respond after a minute, just glowered at her defiantly, Bette shook her head at the other woman, “Your silence speaks for you. Honestly, you’d think you’d eat at least some sort of edible nutrition that didn’t begin its life as coffee beans and you’re really old enough to know better.”

 

Maggie was about to counter Bette’s criticism when she heard an excited bark from the vicinity of Bette’s knees. Buster, the border collie--blue heeler mix she’d found emaciated and tied to a dumpster in an alleyway a year ago then adopted, started wagging his black bushy tail so hard when she came into view that it vibrated his entire body like the strings of a piano. He whined excitedly and strained against the leash in Bette’s hand to get closer to her.

 

“Well, at least someone’s happy to see me,” Maggie said, raising and eyebrow at Bette and turning all of her attention to the dog.

 

She knelt down and Buster nearly knocked her over in his enthusiasm, jumping up on her lap and licking her face and whining as she spoke to him in the high, baby-like tones that proved his human was truly happy to see him.

 

“How was he today?” Maggie asked Bette, as Buster continued to try to paw his way up onto her knees, finally just settling for standing on his back legs and licking Maggie’s chin.

 

“Oh, you know, spent the day pouting like one of your infrequent one night stands because he missed you, but he was well behaved otherwise,” Bette shrugged noncommittally.

 

Maggie ignored the barb, gently pushing Buster back so she could get a better look at him. “Did he eat anything?”

 

“A few pieces of hard food, but not much more.”

 

Maggie sighed, taking Buster’s head in her hands and scratching behind his ears. After she adopted him, Buster has bonded to Maggie pretty quickly and because of that, when she wasn’t with him he had a tendency not to eat or sleep or play. She’d come home at night and see him sitting a few feet from the door, watching and waiting until she came in. It wasn’t until Bette had started watching him during Maggie’s longer work days and had informed her that Buster didn’t just wait for Maggie when she would normally come home, but he really did wait _all day_ by the door without doing anything else until Maggie came back. Bette would try to take him on walks or throw those tennis balls he liked to eviscerate, but Buster was never dissuaded from his primary mission.

 

Now though—with Maggie in front of him—Buster seemed to be the poster boy for the happiest dog alive.

 

“What am I going to do with you Buster-boy? Hm?” Maggie cooed, scratching the dog’s jowls and looked at her as if she had all of the answers.

 

“ ’You can take me for a walk to someplace where we can both eat some breakfast. And give the nice lady who watches me a raise’,” Bette said in a low tone, throwing her voice like the ventriloquist she’d always wanted to be when she was a little girl and looking entirely innocent as Maggie smirked up at her.

 

The detective chuckled and looked between her austere self-appointed guardian and the dog who looked at her with large dark eyes like she was everything good in the world. For the first time in a month or more, real warmth bloomed in Maggie’s chest. She had people—yes, pets counted as people—who cared for her and they’d never let her forget it so she might as well give in and enjoy her time with them. If there was anything Maggie had learned since the freak accident that mad little Dr. Vitae had led her into ninety-five years ago, it was that good moments in life were short and far between. They needed to be enjoyed while they lasted.

 

When Maggie remained lost in her thoughts, Bette again took it as a que to prompt her.

 

“Seriously, you need to get out of this place, Mags, and if you don’t get some food in you right now, I’m going to call that gorgeous, infuriating Captain of yours and have her order you to go.”

 

To drive home her point, Bette fished her Nokia out of her pocket with her free hand, her index finger hovering near the keyboard with insidious intent. Maggie looked at her and stood.

 

“ ‘Gorgeous,’ huh? I’m sure Captain Lin would appreciate hearing that in person,” Maggie grinned, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

 “Or I can will all of your assets to Buster. It’s your choice,” Bette countered playfully, never losing a beat.

“Some friend you are. Captain’s not even in today,” Maggie pouted, taking Buster’s leash as the two made for the front doors.

 

“A lawyer can never be too careful.”

 

They both chuckled, Buster barked, and all three of them emerged out onto the sun warmed sidewalk.

 

OOOOOOOO

_Gotham City—April 1915_

 

 Actually solving the case of the body buried on the building site of Gotham’s Central Train Depot turned out to be a stranger tale than anything Edgar Allan Poe or even those lesser writers who slummed it making one act story adaptations for Zukor’s silent pictures could have imagined.

 

Maggie had been nervous after she’d accepted her new job offer. She’d made it a point to make choices in her adult life based upon the predicted future consequences and gains of any action taken, but she’d taken Gordon’s offer without knowing what she’d lose if she was kicked out onto the street by the GCPD and that scared the shit out of her. The only thing that gave Maggie some peace of mind about the situation was that Gordon had paired her with Detective Bartlett as her Training Officer and—surprisingly—they actually made a really good team together.

 

Joely Bartlett wasn’t like most men Maggie had worked with or even met before. He didn’t immediately assume that she would play a subservient role in their dynamic just because she was a woman and he also didn’t discount the advice she gave regarding any trace evidence they found just because she was a rookie. He saw her first as a human being rather than just a woman and respected Maggie for her skills and Maggie found that she appreciated him for that in turn. The only friendships she’d had with men in her early life had been with either her little brother, Dominic, or the men who’d frequented Natalie Barney’s home on 20 Rue Jacob where she and her Aunt Tilda had been invited to stay for a few months upon their first arrival in Paris.

 

Natalie Clifford Barney—the undisputed and well worshipped European queen of open lesbianism and free Sapphic love—had been a friend of Aunt Tilda’s when she was a young actress travelling around the world and even—Natalie and her long-term partner at the time, the Duchess of Clermont-Tonnerre—had occasionally insinuated that they’d even been lovers for a brief period in the 1890s. Maggie had never been able to find out whether that rumor was true because whenever she inquired about it, Aunt Tilda would change the subject so swiftly that it was as if the question had never been asked in the first place. However, the fact that Barney had paid for the entirety of Aunt Tilda’s funeral and entombment at Père Lachaise Cemetery had been a not so subtle hint at the validity of a possible romantic entanglement between the two of them.

 

Most of the men who frequented Natalie’s salons every Saturday had been artists, authors, communists, or self-promoted free thinkers who thought of themselves as too liberal to talk down to women who they saw as their intellectual equals. In a way, Maggie hoped Bartlett thought of her like that.

 

As an equal. It would make everything easier in the long run.

 

For weeks after the body of the girl had been found, Maggie and Bartlett had haunted the construction site for potential clues while also driving the site foreman to obstinate frustration grumbling that the police might as well, “Take a giant shit on Alan Wayne and Mayor Cobblepot in person for all the good your delays are doing their pocketbooks.”

 

At the end of the last day of the second week, Maggie and Bartlett had returned to Gotham Central and found Lieutenant Cornwell—only suspended for two days—yanking a half-starved teenage boy around the bullpen by steel chains restraining the boy’s hands and feet and grinning from ear to ear the whole time.

 

As it turned out, Cornwell had been given direct permission from the State’s attorney to arrest an eighteen year old Ashkenazic Jew—Lucien Rothstein—for the disposal of the little girl’s body and—Cornwell insisted even after the M.E.’s report had proven him wrong—on suspicion of her murder. On what evidence, Maggie wasn’t entirely sure. As far as she knew, they just had the girl, no solid leads otherwise.

 

She concluded—as Cornwell continued to boast to his fellow officers—that the boy had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. The first thing that had damned Lucien Rothstein of the crime was that he’d lived in the same tenement house where the dead child—identified in the morgue as 10 year old Marjorie Grey—had lived with her parents and two siblings. The second, was that Lucien had known Marjorie as a friend of his younger sister and when Cornwell had questioned him about the day little Marjorie was last seen, Lucien had run without provocation. According to Cornwell, he’d arrested him because Marjorie had last been seen entering that apartment the last day she’d been seen alive and because why would an innocent man run?

 

Watching Cornwell march the shackled youth around—because handcuffs apparently weren’t showy enough, he had to pull out the irons reserved for the most dangerous prisoners—through the station like a triumphant war hero made Maggie’s stomach turn and lit a fire deep in her belly. A fire to see real justice done.

 

As if in slow motion, Maggie had taken in everything happening around her as Cornwell shouted something, the men gathered cheered, and Lucien was pushed into the center of the bullpen. She watched Lucien being pulled into the orbit of two uniformed cops and jeered at. Another patrol officer yanked him around by his chains, calling him, “a Dirty Kike bastard” echoed by a chorus of voices shouting “damned child killing Jew.”

 

Maggie scanned the boy’s body, taking mental notes as she did. He was around 5 foot 1 inches and skinny. His hair was dark and shone under the gas lamps hanging from the ceiling like it was wet. There were places where Lucien’s lower ribs peaked through the thin cloth patches that had been used to mend the holes in what was probably his only shirt. His hair was unkempt because why comb it down when it was just going to have to be washed after a day of long labor anyway?

 

There was coal soot under his fingernails. His trousers had seen better days, but they weren’t surprisingly made of the heavier material often favored by laborers, but homespun wool almost worn through in places. His shoes had high buttons and were several decades older than the times and the soles of those shoes showed signs of being glued back together. They were also stained ochre with dust—the color of the dirt from the construction site. There was a primal fear in his young voice as he cried out in Yiddish and what sounded like Russian to the officers who were abusing him, but each word protesting his innocence only brought more pain down upon his head.

 

One cop spit a plug of chewed tobacco into the boy’s face. Another smacked Lucien so hard across the cheek that a string of blood spurted out from the side of his mouth as he fell to his knees. The gathered uniforms cheered to see him drop. The only one who didn’t was Cornwell who griped as he dragged Lucien back to his feet by the shackles around his wrists and pushed the teenager back into the hostile arms of the people who were employed by the law to protect him.

 

No one else seemed to care that the poor boy didn’t speak enough English yet to defend himself. Then Lucien had turned in Maggie’s direction. His dark eyes flashed with feelings of betrayal and fear and Maggie was reminded of another moment in her life when time had seemed to stand still around her as a hailstorm of text books were thrown at her by a schoolhouse full of hateful peers. She still heard the chorus of their insults in her dreams some nights:

 

_Dyke, dyke, take a hike! Dyke, dyke, take a hike!_

The youthful voices rang in her ears for a moment as wall clocks slowed and Maggie watched Lucien be mocked by the gathered host of uniformed officers. It was as if she could feel like what is was to be in the middle of that hateful circle. She felt the pushes and blows of phantom hands and the voices in her eyes grew louder and louder until her ears rang with them. Maggie closed her eyes and when she opened them again, she was in control once more.

 

Suddenly, time had returned to its natural speed and Lucien was pulled into the grasp of a giant of a man in blue serge before being hoisted smoothly into the air faster than any flag.

 

“Stop! Stop!” Maggie shouted.

 

The rabble quieted, Lucien was lowered carefully to his feet, and Cornwell looked at her with eyes like red hot coals ready to burn a whole right through her. Bartlett—who’d been leaning against a desk in the bullpen behind Maggie—scrambled to his feet, folded his arms across his chest, and stood directly behind his rookie partner so there was no question who’s corner he was in.

 

“Is that boy in the process of harming anyone?” Maggie asked the occupants of the room.

 

At first they appeared surprised that this question was even being asked of them so Maggie repeated it patiently. They looked at each other, shrugged, then looked to Cornwell, “Lieutenant?”

 

“Not right now, no, but he—”

 

“Has the boy threatened harm to anyone? Has he tried to escape since you took him into custody?”

 

Cornwell’s face reddened in rage as everyone once again looked towards him for guidance.

 

“What are all of you looking at me for?!” Cornwell fumed.

 

“If he hasn’t done any of those things, then you must treat him with the respect the law demands every suspect be treated with until he’s indicted.”

 

“He’s a damn kike, _Special Investigator_ ,” Cornwell said, spitting out her title as if it were a chewed tobacco plug being spewed into a spittoon. “Practically fresh off of the boat, he ain’t got no rights to speak of. Besides, when I arrived on his doorstep he ran like the guilty little Jew boy he is so I arrested him. He hurt that little girl and we’re just seeing he’s punished for it before he’s sent to the chair.”

 

There were murmurs of assent throughout the room. _Where was the Captain at a time like this?_ Maggie wondered. _Why was he never around when they needed him?_ She stood on her tiptoes, but their fearless leader was nowhere to be found.

 

“I know you have no physical evidence that he committed that crime, Cornwell, and under section 221 of the Crimes Act of 1900, “ ‘A person shall not, in the course of arresting another person for an offence, use more force, or subject the other person to greater indignity, than is necessary and reasonable to make the arrest or prevent the escape of the other person after the arrest.’ Unless you want this boy’s family or the Ashkenazi Jewish community of Kosher Street at large to sue you and this police department for unjust treatment, he must be remanded and respectfully treated,” Maggie rattled off.

 

She’d made it a habit to study the laws of all of the places she’d ever lived in to know what her rights were if she was ever arrested in any one of city. It was a genius move for a rootless wanderer, really. Maggie looked back at Bartlett and saw he was looking at her with eyebrows shot up into his hairline and his black Oscuro cigar dangling from one corner of his open mouth. Cornell, however, was less impressed with Maggie’s accumulated knowledge. When he spoke again, his voice was so full of fury that Maggie was sure he was finally going to make her pay for all of the corrections of his behavior and unhelpful jibs she’d given him in the past weeks.

 

“He’s my prisoner!” Cornwell seethed through clenched teeth, jerking a thumb at his chest. “And I know the damn rules.”

 

With that, the Lieutenant grabbed Lucien Rothstein by the collar of his shirt and forced him down the stairwell towards the holding cells. A heavy atmosphere hung over the room in Cornwell’s absence and then—as if nothing had happened—things went back to normal. Patrol officers pulled on gloves and departed for their beats while those sitting at their desks answered ringing phones or reviewed reports.

 

Maggie took a deep breath let it out, her entire body deflating as the adrenaline that had been fueling her forward drained out of her. A hand squeezed her shoulder in what was meant as a comforting gesture.

 

“You’ve done good, Rookie.” Bartlett said, impressed. “Hey, how do you know all the sections of what was it again?”

 

“The Crimes Act of 1900,” Maggie repeated.

 

“Huh, I don’t remember that being part of our retraining at any point and I think it would’ve been…I’ve been on the force long enough.” Bartlett said, thinking

 

Maggie smirked, leaning back against a desk as Bartlett came to his own conclusions.

 

“Wait. The Crimes Act of 1900 isn’t a local thing is it?” Bartlett asked.

 

Maggie’s smirk grew, but her voice was calm and completely deadpan, “Oh it is very much a thing…in Australia.”

 

OOOOOOO

 

After Cornwell threw Lucien Rothstein into a holding cell, he left the station for lunch at the sandwich shop across the street. That left Maggie and Bartlett with a shallow window of opportunity and they took it. They were let into Lucien’s cell with him. He looked smaller somehow up close than he had in the bullpen. The chains and shackles had been taken off of his feet, leaving behind wide red bands of irritated skin. He’d been laying down, but when the door opened, he shot up and regarded Bartlett and Maggie wearily. The cramped space wasn’t meant to accommodate three people. There was mattress on a wrought iron bedframe against the side wall and an ominous smelling metal bucket in the far corner. Above the bucket a faded paper poster had been nailed into the concrete. It showed a noose, beside which had been printed the offenses someone could hang for—back when hanging was a method of execution. Etched in the center of the noose were the words, “Swing high, aim low.”

 

“How ya doing, kid?” Bartlett asked, sitting down on the end of the prison bed where Lucien’s feet had been moments before.

 

Lucien looked at him as if he expected to be struck and he probably did. Bartlett caught the look of fear in his eyes and raised in hands in the air.

 

“Hey, easy kid. I’m not gonna hurt you. Me and my partner, we’re just here to talk to you like people. Is that alright?”

 

Lucien’s narrow shoulders relaxed slightly as he let out a deep breath, but the rest of his body was still tense. He looked at where Maggie was pacing on the other side of the cell—occasionally peering out of the bars for Cornwell. As she turned around, Maggie met his eyes and gave him a warm smile.

 

“We need to ask you about Marjorie,” Maggie said, trying to make her tone as kind as possible to offset the anxiety her words might trigger.

 

“Nothing. Nothing. I know nothing,” Lucien replied shaking his head back and forth rapidly.

 

“We know you didn’t hurt her, Lucien.” Maggie explained quietly, “but we need to know as much as you can tell us to prove it.”

 

Bartlett fished a little black notebook from his pocket, flipped back the cover, and fished in his pocket another moment before coming back up with a Swan Safety fountain pen.

 

“Alright, we know Thursday, April 15th, 1915 was the last day Marjorie Grey was seen alive. What were you doing on that day, Lucien?” Bartlett asked, pen poised expectantly over the notebook.

 

Lucien shrugged and looked down at the cracked cement floor. Maggie had suspected that—like most second language English speakers—the boy understood more words than he spoke, but how many could he articulate and would they be enough to absolve him of blame? Only time would tell, but time—Maggie mused turning her head back to the bars and the gray expanse of corridor beyond—was not on their side.

 

“Come on, son,” Bartlett sighed. “We can’t help you if you don’t talk to us.”

 

“I was at home with children—the children,” Lucien finally whispered.

 

Bartlett licked his thumb and flipped a few pages back in his book to the few notes he took when the commotion started in the bullpen.

 

“Cornwell said you were home alone when he knocked on your door? But you have kids of your own or younger siblings, I take it?”

 

“Sisters, brothers…they play stick ball..,” Lucien trailed off, his hands running over a flat horizontal surface in the air then pointing down at where the invisible object should be. There was frustration on his face and pleading in his eyes as he struggled to show what he meant.

 

“In the street?” Bartlett offered.

 

Lucien nodded quickly and Bartlett wrote it down. Maggie remained quiet, observing every detail across from her, taking in little things, signs of previous life in the cell she wished she didn’t notice like what looked like scratch marks on the wall over Lucien’s shoulder, dots of dried brown blood on the edge of the stripped mattress by Bartlett’s hip, and the way Lucien’s leg jittered up and down nervously. It was her gift and her curse—Maggie’s ability to observe, categorize, and process things others might’ve dismissed as unimportant.

 

“Why’d you run, Lucien?” Bartlett asked evenly.

 

“He scared me,” Lucien said, his body beginning to shake.

 

“Did he threaten you before you ran?” Maggie inquired. She’d stopped pacing and was standing next to the bars, hands resting in her trouser pockets.

 

Lucien looked at her with wide eyes—clearly afraid—but his hands clenched down on the mattress on either sides of his now completely still legs. Beneath the single gas lamp hanging from the asymmetrical ceiling, Lucien’s dark hair looked like it was drying. Was his hair wet because of sweat maybe? Maggie stepped closer to him and took in a deep breath—and coughed.

 

“What?” Bartlett asked, his eyebrows drawn up in bemusement.

 

“The smell,” Maggie got out before coughing into the cook of her arm.

 

“Hey, I’ll have you know, I took a bath this morning. I even shaved and rubbed Bay Rum in so there is no way I smell bad,” Bartlett protested, defensively.

 

Maggie recovered and elaborated, “No, him. He smells like kerosene. How didn’t I notice it before? How didn’t you notice it?”

 

Bartlett sniffed the air for good measure, “I can’t smell anything right now.”

 

Lucien looked at him and raised his eyebrows. Then he said, “Then how you know you no—“and finished by pinching his fingers over his nose.

 

Bartlett shrugged, “My wife told me I smelled good this morning, so I know. Wives are good like that. Mothers too.”

 

Lucien nodded, albeit a little sadly.

 

The moment between the two would’ve drawn Maggie’s attention in any other circumstance, but they were under the wire and still they knew almost nothing. Maggie stepped closer until she was standing above Lucien. She bent her head and took a better look at him in the dim light. His dark hair looked oily from the kerosene, but there were a few pieces of hair that reflected the light brighter than the rest like the tiny clear beads of a window curtain. She moved a few strands aside with her fingers, parting his hair and finding the reason why.

 

Glass. There were shards of glass in his hair.

 

“Where did these shards of glass come from? Lucien?” Maggie asked, stepping back so she could see his expression.

 

Lucien reached over the side of the bed to an invisible surface and clasped his fingers in a half circle as if he was picking up something. Then he slammed the top of his hand into the concrete above his head, letting out a loud breath between his teeth as sound effects as both of his hands rose above his head and expanded outwards.

 

“You broke a lamp over your head?” Bartlett asked.

 

Lucien shook his head no.

 

Bartlett tried again, “Someone else broke a lamp above your head?”

 

“Him,” Lucien said, then repeated the word while winding one hand back and letting it curve forward in a classic baseball pitch gesture. “Him, him.”

 

“Cornwell threw a lamp at you?” Maggie asked.

 

“Dave?!” Bartlett exclaimed, standing up in surprise. “Nah, he wouldn’t.”

 

“The man’s a maniac, Joe. He needs his badge taken away,” Maggie stated, bluntly.

 

“Nah, is Dave a hot head sure? Does he make the best decisions when he’s angry? No, but would he throw a lamp at an immigrant kid for refusing to confess to what he didn't know? No way in hell. That's highly illegal and Cornwell's this city's most decorated example of law and order. None of it makes any sense, Maggie.”

 

Lucien clapped his hands together to get their attention, then held up one hand like he was holding a pencil and began scribbling in the air.

 

“Writing,” Bartlett tried as they both turned to watch him. “Writing a letter.”

 

Lucien stopped for a minute and glared at him, then started up again, this time his hand moving more furiously.  Maggie’s gaze bounced around the room as she thought. Writing? What did writing have to do with Cornwell? If Lucien couldn’t speak English, that didn’t mean he wasn’t literate, but what would Cornwell have cared about that and where would any of that have come into play with Cornwell just standing in the hallway outside of—Maggie stopped, the wheels in her head rewinding.

 

In the bullpen, Cornwell had said he’d only knocked on the door and he’d never been in the Rothstein’s apartment but what if he’d been lying?

 

Some officers had little to no compunction infringing on a person’s first amendment rights. Maggie’d seen it happen at least ten different times since she’d come to Gotham alone and that had been before she’d joined the police department. She’d seen suffragettes who were peacefully protesting outside of Town Hall be beaten away with billy clubs and the camera of one of the newspaper photographers set up nearby forcibly picked up and smashed so none of it would reach print.

 

But was doing something like that to a young immigrant too extreme even for a loose cannon like Lieutenant Cornwell? Maggie knew how he felt about her and she had no doubt he would do those things to her and "deviants" like her without hesitation, but to other people would he have big enough balls to take those kinds of risks when his job was on the line? Maggie signed, rubbing her forehead as a headache began to build behind her eyes.

 _Probably_ , Maggie concluded in her head.

 

“Did he—” Maggie started, faltering as she tried to figure out how to word the question she wanted to ask. “Was he in your apartment Lucien?”

 

“Yes,” Lucien answered immediately. “Yes. He wanting me say I hurt her. Marjorie.”

 

“So he what? Forced you to write a confession and then threw a lamp at you?”

 

Maggie and Bartlett looked at each other. Things were falling together, but there was one final building block missing in their understanding. Something crucial.

 

Lucien shook his head adamantly, “No, I no can write.”

 

Maggie let out a deep breath, her chest constricting as that crucial thing became visible to her—as clear as the picture of Cornwell sitting across a table from her—staring her down for a confession she didn’t have for something she didn’t do.

 

“He let himself into your apartment to question you, threatened you, wrote down a confession, and then got angry when you wouldn’t sign it,” Maggie concluded, her stomach beginning to roll uncomfortably.

 

“Yes!” Lucien shouted in triumph, clapping his hands together once and looking between both of them as if excited that they both understood what he’d been trying to tell them over and over again.

 

“That’s highly illegal,” Maggie said, rubbing her hand over her face.

 

“But if you didn’t sign the confession then it can’t be used in court,” Bartlett said, hopefully. “And if you didn’t actually run from him then he doesn’t have even a circumstantial net to haul you in on. Were there any witnesses to this, Lucien?”

 

Lucien shook his head quickly.

 

“No, Sisters, brothers…” Lucien pointed down again.

 

“…were playing stick ball. We got it. Damn,” Bartlett finished, cursing as he realized they were in the same situation they were in when they’d walked into the cell. “It’s just your word against his then.”

 

“What about you?” Maggie asked. “You could said Lucien told you what really happened and you believe him? Gordon would probably believe it if it came from you. You said it yourself, Cornwell’s a hothead and the Commissioner isn’t blind.”

 

Bartlett shook his head, “Wouldn’t work, Mags. Cornell’s been decorated for bravery. Just a few years ago, he saved the life of Mayor Cobblepot from an assassin. He’s the golden boy. The mayor has a couple reporters whose only job is to write about him. He’s like the Gibson Girl of law enforcement. You’ve seen the papers, haven’t you?”

 

Indeed, Maggie had.

 

Nestled between article headers like “Typhoid Epidemic On West Side Over,” and advertisements for Radium Hand Cleaner – "It Takes Off Everything But The Skin”—ran articles on the front page of the _Gotham Gazette_ at least once a week, “Detective Saves Woman from Mad Leap From Kane Memorial Bridge,” or “Detective Speaks to Neighborhood Children About Crime.” Maggie had just skimmed over those headlines before, but after meeting Cornwell in person and seeing what a despicable human being he actually was, she found she couldn’t even look at a _Gazette_ front page anymore without feeling a flash of annoyance or nausea.

 

Maggie latched onto the one hope she could think of.

 

“You didn’t sign the confession did you, Lucien?”

 

“No, I tell you, I no write, I—,“ At this Lucien raised his hand in the air like he was going to write, but instead he made invisible diagonal lines that crossed one another.

 

“He had you make an ‘X’. That’s just as bad. We’re screwed.”

 

Maggie was about to say something when she heard the sound of footsteps on the concrete stairs.

 

“We have to go,” Maggie said, pulling the keys from her pocket and blindly feeling around for the keyhole on the opposite side of the door.

 

Usually, there would’ve been a guard here to watch the inmates in holding, but there was only Lucien this afternoon and Maggie had guessed when she’d arrived that the guard had slipped out for lunch. So she’d taken the keys and their responsibilities upon herself, but she hadn’t thought about the logistics of unlocking the cell door from the inside and now she wished she had. The footsteps continued and Maggie fumbled, almost dropping the keys as one after the other failed to fit and turn in the lock.

 

“Hang in there kid,” Bartlett said to Lucien, then bounced on the balls of his feet towards Maggie. “What’s the hold up?”

 

If Maggie’s hands weren’t shaking and they hadn’t been on a time crunch, she would’ve whacked her partner in the back of the head.

 

“What do you think?!” Maggie hissed, feeling a little more steady as the right key popped into the lock. “I’m unlocking a door backwards!!”

 

“Houdini did that in a French nickel flick years ago,” Bartlett shrugged, stepping away when Maggie growled at him for the comment. “He made it look easy enough.”

 

“Houdini fucking lied!”

 

“But it was right there on film. I mean how can they show it if it—”

 

“Joe!” Maggie scolded.

 

“What? I didn’t do anything!”

 

“Why do you think I’m yelling?!”

 

Maggie was beginning to sweat as the footsteps grew louder and picked up pace. The key turned finally with a click, but the door remained closed.

 

“You have to be kidding me! Fuck!” Maggie cursed and threw her body weight against the bars once.

 

Then a second time with Bartlett throwing his weight in beside her. Then the door finally gave on the third push and they both tumbled to the concrete floor in a heap. Maggie got up quickly, closed the door, locked it, and grabbed Bartlett by his ear in one hand and his shirt collar in the other, pulling both of them back behind the guard’s half circle desk like something out of a vaudeville act.

 

The footsteps finally stopped at the bottom of the stairs as Detective Cornwell arrived. He looked around him absently twirling a toothpick between his teeth. Maggie held her breath and Bartlett swallowed dryly laying on his side where she’d dropped him. They waited for felt like an eternity before Cornwell started moving again and humming _The Yankee Doodle Boy_ as he sauntered up to lean against the bars of Lucien’s cell.

 

“How you doing, Jew boy?” Cornwell asked, smiling.

 

Lucien glared at him from the cot, but Cornwell hadn’t been waiting for an answer. The tooth pick dropped languidly onto the floor at his feet. Then he reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a packet of Lucy Strikes, biting down on a cigarette between his teeth, and then stuffing the crumpled paper pack away. He turned towards Lucien again, looming over the cell in his three piece black suit and bowler like a morbid specter. A hand disappeared into his jacket pocket and returned with a matchbook. The red phosphorus ignited against the book. Cornwell drew from the cigarette until the end glowed orange and was about to drop the match to the ground and extinguish it until he saw Lucien flinch.

 

He drew on his cigarette in silence then leaned forward.

 

“You’re not scared of a little fire now are you, kike?” Cornwell asked.

 

When Lucien didn’t answer, he lunged forward tossing the lit match across the room. Lucien vaulted off of the mattress and retreated into a dark corner, cowering. Cornwell snickered and leaned there watching him.

 

“What? You don’t wanna be a kosher candle? Killjoy.”

 

There was silence for a while as Cornwell just smoked and watched Lucien in silence.

 

“Nah, I wouldn’t do that to you, kid. I’ve never burned anybody alive before and I won’t have to if you’re good. Can’t account for my actions though if you misbehave. I’ve got a meeting with my Captain and then you’re going to be charged for murder. You’ll have your name on the front of all the papers—well—you’ll have your moniker in the papers. I can picture it now, ‘Hero Detective Catches Kike Girl Slayer.’ Sounds pretty catchy, don’t you think?”

 

Cornell pulled the cigarette stub from his lips, looked like he was going to toss it to the floor then looked at Lucien, smirking. He feigned throwing it and Lucien flinched back against the wall with a yelp. Cornwell chuckled, dropped the cigarette but to the ground and stepped on it.

 

“I’m just joshing with ya, kid. Gotta give you some sort of entertainment while you rot away down here. Like I said though, won’t be long and you’ll have a cell to yourself in an actual prison. I’ll be back and when I am I’ll see you fry.”

 

With that, Cornell was humming again and transcending the stairs. When he was gone, Maggie stood and slammed her fist down into the desktop while Bartlett rolled over with a groan and righted himself.

 

“Son of a bitch!” Maggie growled. “We gotta go. We don’t have that much time. He—”

 

“Easy, Rookie,” Bartlett said, grasping her shoulders and squeezing. “Don’t tap out on me. We still got one more round to go. You’re acting like James J. Jeffries, but I need you to be Jack Johnson. Hell, that kid needs both of us to be Jack Johnson.”

 

Lucien had come up to the bars and was watching them. His face was paler than it had been and dark circles were visible beneath his eyes. He already looked defeated.

 

“It ain’t over until it’s over, Rookie. Come on.”

 

Bartlett took off towards the stairs with more energy than Maggie knew he had. He’d done it for both Lucien’s benefit and hers, but Maggie didn’t feel any better. She looked at Lucien.

 

“We’re going to get you out of here. I promise.”

 

Then Maggie, followed Bartlett, taking the stairs two at a time. Absently—like someone who wasn’t on the verge of losing their first ever case—Maggie found herself wondering who in the hell Jack Johnson was.

 

OOOOOOOO

 

Without speaking, they’d gone back to Marjorie Grey’s tenement house and spent the next few hours canvassing the building, speaking with the landlord, maintenance workers, and every family that lived there. Sometimes a door would open and they’d find nine people comprising two or three separate families cramped into a tiny two room abode. Always the children of the immigrant families would translate for their parents. Not surprisingly, Maggie and Bartlett had found that none of Lucien’s neighbors thought he’d done it. “He was an upstanding boy,” they’d said, “A credit to his father. Oh, his poor father.”

 

According to a Mrs. Valenti who lived in between the Rothsteins and the Greys, old Mr. Rothstein’s wife had died in childbirth and he’d been working on the docks nearly day and night for the last few years to provide for his children. She also said that Lucien—being the oldest boy—had spent most of his time caring for his younger siblings instead of attending school, all of whom had been constant playmates of Marjorie Grey so it hadn’t been strange at all that she’d been in the Rothstein’s apartment that day.

 

Even the Greys didn’t believe Lucien could have harmed their daughter. Bizarrely, they were convinced it was some sort of boogeyman figure that had been luring children who’d been reported missing from different tenements around Gotham away with a pocket full of sweets or a handful of pennies. Those children were never seen alive again, but the police investigation of those disappearances had come to a halt almost immediately because kids ran away from home right? It was a near daily occurrence so no one had bothered to link the missing cases and make inquiries. After talking to the distraught couple, Maggie made a note in her interview book to look into the situation once this was resolved.

 

Believing a specter had taken the girl had seemed to become more and more probable as Maggie and Bartlett made the rounds over each floor. Marjorie’s body in the morgue had showed no signs of struggle or abuse before it’d been released to the funeral home and Lucien—by all accounts—had always been kind to the Greys, helping their younger sons with the early morning coal deliveries they made to other tenements so as to help their parents pay the rent.

 

Last, Maggie and Bartlett had met with Mr. Rothstein himself and his other children—all six of whom ranged in age from four to eleven. Mr. Rothstein—as the neighbors’ had recounted—was a worn old man perhaps in his early fifties who looked like the gaunt specter of a man in his late seventies. He worked at all hours and—as a result—he suffered from severe rheumatism that made it hard for him to do little more than shuffle from the door to his bed once he’d made the agonizing return from work each day.

 

“Lucien, had done the rest,” Mr. Rothstein, had admitted by way of the translation of one of his younger sons. That was as forthcoming as he’d been able to be before he broke down into tears. The old man had curled in on himself and sobbed and sobbed, repeating, “My boy, my boy, my precious boy,” over and over again even when all of his had children enveloped him in a massive hug.

 

While the family grieved, Maggie and Bartlett had taken their time inspecting the Rothstein’s living spaces.

 

The family’s lodgings consisted of only two meager rooms similar to the layout of Maggie’s own apartment. There was a living room where a rough table stood surrounded by an assortment of mended furniture pieces—from broken foot stools someone had probably tossed out and Maggie imagined Lucien had repaired—to a few metal buckets turned upside down to serve as chairs for the youngest children. The walls were plaster—tinged yellow with age and the soot that came in through the stovepipe and radiators—with no ornamentation whatsoever. On the wall beside the door, wooden cots were lined up, four squashed together along the plaster. The adjoining room was a kitchen where two more cots had been shoved beneath the stovepipe that ran from the brick dividing wall across the ceiling and down into the gas range where the family’s meals were prepared.

 

Lucien had been in charge of the cooking, Mr. Rothstein had said and he’d also made the coffee or tea the family drank in the morning and every evening before bed. Maggie and Bartlett had paid special attention here to the small somewhat rusted iron teapot that sat on the last burner. The kettle itself was rounded with a copper base that tapered down into a copper pedestal and it was this pedestal which rested on the grate over gas jet that would have to be lit manually before the water could be heated. 

 

There was a problem with the kettle though.

 

It wasn’t as sturdy as it seemed upon first glance. The copper bottom was a decoration added to the heirloom that appeared to be much too small to safely hold up the pot and its contents without careful placement. Maggie reached out and gently pushed the empty container with one finger. She added a second when the heavy wrought iron refused to budge. Eventually either her fingers or the kettle would give way and she was relieved when it was the teapot that toppled over onto its side on the enamel stovetop.

 

Then Bartlett had gone back into the other room to question Mr. Rothstein in more detail. While voices mumbled in the other room, Maggie continued to stare at the overturned iron kettle, willing her tired eyes to see more than the obvious.

 

She and Bartlett had spent all day working the case. Now they only had a limited amount of time before Cornwell led Lucien in chains from the precinct to the courtroom and then—if the worse happened—from the courtroom to prison and from there directly to the electric chair at Black Gate. Faint sunlight cut through the only window in the room, illuminating dust particles swirling in the air above the stove. Maggie’s eyes drifted loosely back and forth between the range and a rubber tube that ran from the back of the stove down into a gas tap in the wall by the floor.

 

Finding nothing out of the ordinary, Maggie ran a hand over her eyes in exhaustion. She’d been ready to throw in the towel then, to give up in defeat, but before she could convince herself that going back to a life of making gravel deliveries would be a good idea, she heard the voice of one of her criminology professors in her ears as she stared into the space straight ahead of her:

 

_Remember, students, every contact leaves a trace and it is this trace evidence that will show you the way forward. Do not waste your time and focus on only what is obvious to you. It should always be the chief occupation of the forensic scientist to look upon the scene of even crime—old or fresh—with ‘new eyes.’_

Maggie took a step back from the stove, scanning up and down the sides and over every surface. It only took a second before her eyes locked onto something she hadn’t seen before, a small smudge of brown on the white enamel corner just below the foremost burner. It could’ve been rust, but the rest of the stove was rust free save the feet that curved into the floor. She knelt down, pulled a white handkerchief from her trouser pocket, and rubbed at the smudge. The smear that stretched faintly across the smooth white silk appeared to be a dark red whereas rust residue when smeared or crushed between the fingers was always ochre in color.

 

Maggie bent to smell the stain on the fabric, but there was no odor. Steeling herself, she lifted the fabric to her mouth hesitantly and touched the smear to the tip of her tongue. Immediately, she tasted metal…but not enamel or steel.

 

Copper. She tasted copper.

 

It was the same sharp taste that flooded her mouth whenever Maggie accidentally bit her tongue or was punched in the jaw during a back alley brawl: Blood.

 

It couldn’t be Marjorie’s. She’d had no cuts, scrapes, on her body to speak of that were recent. Swiftly, Maggie stood, stuffed the cloth back into her pocket, and walked quietly into the other room. The boys were huddled around Mr. Rothstein on his cot as Bartlett asked the old man if his children were left home alone by themselves during the day, and if so, did he know if they were alone at any time on the last day Marjorie was alive? Had they been alone when she’d come over? Did Lucien mention anything odd to him that happened during the day? Etcetera.

 

During the discussion, Maggie noticed that Rothstein’s only daughter—eleven year old Magda—was the only one who wasn’t sitting with her father. Instead, she stood close to the table, staring down at her torn shoes and the floorboards beneath. The girl’s dress was a tan rag, the shoulder sleeves of both arms were so tattered they were almost non-existent. Maggie took in her small frame, her wiry arms, and bowed legs—potentially a consequence of rickets she thought—before settling on the left shoulder where the edge of a rectangle of cotton gauze peaked out beneath leftover tan threads.

 

Maggie had a theory, but she couldn’t prove it if she didn’t test it so she followed her instincts.

 

She knelt down so she was eye level with the little girl, but still a respectful distance away. Surprised, Magda took a few steps back anyway, her large oval eyes regarding Maggie wearily. When their gazes locked, it was like a wireless signal had been sent and the Morse code had arrived and been transcribed by separate operators at the same time. It was in a language every human being spoke: fear. Cold, dread.

 

“It’s going to be alright,” Maggie said softly to comfort her.

 

But Magda didn’t believe Maggie. She shook her head violently and her dark eyes filled to the brim with tears. She continued to shake her head determinedly even as the tears began to stream down her cheeks. Maggie did the only thing she felt like she could in that moment—she opened her arms wide. Magda stayed cautiously where she was at first, then vaulted into Maggie’s embrace like she’d known the woman all of her life and cried into her waistcoat.

 

The murmuring of voices from Bartlett and Mr. Rothstein quieted as Magda sobbed. She cried and cried until her sobs had turned into hiccups and her tears had given way to puffy eyes and sniffles.

 

“It’s going to be alright,” Maggie repeated, gently, rubbing the girl’s back with a free hand, “But we need your help, Magda.”

 

When the girl stayed quiet, Maggie pushed back from her a step so they were eye to eye again.

 

“The more we know, the more we can help your brother. I know he didn’t hurt Marjorie. I know what happened to her was likely an accident, but I can’t do anything with that knowledge. We can’t do anything for Lucien until we know the truth, all of it and can prove his innocence.  I know you know what happened, Magda, and if you tell us, I promise my partner and I will do everything in our power to help your brother.”

 

Magda brought a hand up to her face, rubbing at her irritated eyes and then looked down at her feet again, her emotional vulnerability from earlier hidden beneath a veil of trepidation and mistrust.

 

“Luci, told me not to tell anyone. He said we’d be safe that way.”

 

“What happened that afternoon, Magda?”

 

Maggie waited patiently in the suspended silence of the room and was rewarded when Magda started to speak. The words rushed out like a raging flood, painting a picture of the missing pieces of that afternoon. Marjorie had come over to play with Magda and her littler brothers as she often did while her parents were working and school was off. The two older boys aside from Lucien had taken extra shifts at the factory where they worked so it’d only been Lucien, Magda, Marjorie, four year old Albert and six year old Yusef. Lucien had been sitting at their worn dining table practicing writing down English words from one of those cheap translations of the Bible missionaries forced into immigrant hands at the docks and sounding them out once they were inked onto the blank paper.

 

Bored, the smaller children had begun to chase each other around the table, over the cots, and then into the kitchen, and back again giggling. Lucien—used to their antics—hadn’t attempted to stop their spirited game. Marjorie tapped Yusef on the shoulder and shouted, “You’re it!” Then she and Magda had raced into the kitchen, hand and hand. At some point, Yusef and little Albert had managed to corner Magda and Marjorie between the wall and the gas stove where the kettle was boiling water for tea.

 

Excited and yet terrified of being it—in that serious way children fear silly things—Magda had ducked away from one of Yusef’s long arms, Marjorie shielded behind her and when she’d jerked her shoulder backward, it had collided with the metal grate and the kettle it held. The kettle had fallen over, spilling water over the stove, extinguishing the flame and leaving the unlit valve to spew deadly cooking gas into the room. At first, nothing had happened, then Magda had felt dizzy and heard a thud and then another and then Lucien shouting.

 

Whether through increased exposure or just pure luck—Magda, Yusef, and Albert had all come to once Lucien had turned off the jet and opened a window, but Marjorie—the closest of them to the stove—hadn’t. Lucien had tried to revive her by pumping her arms back and forth and shaking her, but the girl was gone. They’d spent the blurred together minutes after that panicking and shouting at one another and crying before Lucien told Magda to stay with the boys, wrapped Marjorie in a sheet, and carried her in the fog to the construction site where he had buried her.

 

“Luci said—he said—” Magda faltered, stumbling over her words. “Luci said that he would protect me. He said we couldn’t bring her back and that all we could do was make sure no one knew it was our fault because if anyone knew me and Luci and Papa and the boys would all be separated. He—he—he didn’t say anything because he wanted to protect me and the family. It was an accident. Marjorie was my best friend, I never—but Luci—Luci tried to protect us and now he’s in trouble and—“

 

Magda broke down crying and clung to Maggie again. Maggie perched her chin on the girl’s hair and held her as she sobbed. Over Madga’s head, she could see Bartlett remove his hat in deference and Mr. Rothstein stare ahead into the room unseeing as his sons whispered on the cot around him.

 

“It’s going to be okay,” Maggie reassured over and over because that was all she could think to do. “It’s all going to be okay.”

 

OOOOOOOO

 

They’d reported straight to Commissioner Gordon when they returned to the Station as they’d been ordered to do. Gordon listened to them, had them fill out the necessarily paperwork and met with the Captain and the DA to decide how to proceed. There would have to be an inquest into Marjorie’s death—that would be unavoidable—but whether criminal charges would follow for Lucien and what they would be still needed to be arranged.

 

“You think the DA will buy it?” Bartlett asked, as both of them leaned against opposite sides of the corridor leading to the Captain’s office where three voices argued at different volume levels.

 

“I hope so,” Maggie answered shifting her weight from one foot to another before leaning back into a more comfortable position against the wall.

 

“District Attorney Neil isn’t fond of immigrants like most of the people with authority and money in this town. He’d sink the Rothstein kid if it was just him deciding, but Gordon’s on the level though. Commish isn’t the type to cut corners, that much I’m sure of.”

 

Police officers went back and forth on the floor just below the stairs at the end of the corridor. Maggie could see them if she stood on her tippy toes, but it wouldn’t be worth the muscle strain. The cacophony of phones ringing and shoes stepping from place to place was comforting in its predictability. Even the smell of smoke coming from the cigarette of almost every officer—including Bartlett puffing away on his Lucky Strike across from her—seemed to take the edges off of the day.

 

But tranquility doesn’t have a long shelf life.

 

There was the sound of a door slamming loudly from somewhere below them, then a shouting voice, and leather soles stomping up the stairwell until Lt. Cornwell stood at the end of the corridor. Maggie cursed under her breath and snatched Bartlett’s cigarette from between his lips, taking a long drag before handing it back to her partner and staring up at the stained plaster of the ceiling.

 

This was all she needed. Immediately, his beady rodent eyes focused on them and narrowed. Then he started marching towards them.

 

“You two!” he raged, pointing between the both of them

 

“Hey Dave,” Bartlett greeted. “You want a smoke?”

 

Cornwell didn’t allow himself to be distracted instead he stepped closer to Maggie.

 

“How dare you interfere in my investigation!” He bellowed at her, his cigarette and coffee breathe blowing into Maggie’s face and making her eyes water Cornwell’s voice was so loud that there was no way the three men behind the frosted glass hadn’t heard it. Their argument tapered off as if even they had stopped to listen. “You think you’re a big deal now because you a so called ‘Special Investigator’? Well, I got news for you, you filthy degenerate whore, you’re still just a woman in men’s trousers and vest playing at being police. You are nothing, just a waste of space. Do you hear me, Sawyer?!”

 

“David, David! Hey!”

 

“That’s what this is really about isn’t it?” Maggie said, locking eyes with Cornwell even as he moved his hands to either side of her head on the wall so she was trapped beneath him. “You’re not upset that I interfered in your case. You’re upset that I’m just a woman and I’m doing your job better than you’ll ever be able to. I may be a woman, Lieutenant, but I’m a better man than you’ll ever be and more woman than you’ll ever deserve.”

 

It all happened in a moment. Cornwell’s eyes flashed, one of his hands wrapped around Maggie’s neck and squeezed, Bartlett scurried forward, and somehow in all of the commotion, Maggie ended up being the one who remained standing thanks to a well-placed knee, a good right hook, and follow up kick to the groin once Cornwell was on the floor.

 

“You’re not a man,” Maggie muttered between breaths as she rolled Cornwell over onto his stomach and kept him down with a knee in his spine. When she had his arms firmly restrained behind his back, she leaned down until she was close enough to hiss in his ear. “You’re nothing.”

 

“I’m gonna kill you! Get offa me, you stupid fucking whore!” Cornwell snarled at her over his shoulder, wriggling beneath Maggie’s knee like a stuck eel.

 

Bartlett started to rise from where he fallen, Maggie pulled Cornwell’s arms tighter behind his back, and the DA, the Commissioner, and the Captain left their office for the hallway.

 

“What in blazes?!” the Distract Attorney exclaimed befuddled.

 

“Lieutenant Cornwell?” the Captain said, equally confused.

 

Only Gordon who stepped out from between them, took in the scene and guessed what had really happened given the personality of the officers involved.

 

The Commissioner positioned his hands on his hips and nodded to Maggie, “Let him up, Sawyer. Now!”

 

Maggie rose to her feet and stepped back. Cornwell—red faced and sweating—scurried up to his feet as well then turned, and landed a vicious left hook to Maggie’s jaw and two furious uppercuts to her unprotected abdomen. The blows slammed Maggie back into the wall, where she slid down to the floor and groaned in pain.

 

“That’s right, how do you like that you stupid bitch?!”

 

Cornwell pulled his foot back to kick Maggie, but Bartlett had grabbed one of his arms and Captain Sørensen took hold of the other, pulling him back and restraining him against the opposite wall. Maggie stood up. Her nose had started to drip blood, but as she felt along the sensitive cartilage, Maggie could feel no breaks and she knew at worst in the morning her noise might be a bit swollen and her abdomen was sure to bruise, but all and all she wasn’t badly hurt.

 

Commissioner Gordon took in Maggie’s bloodied nose and Cornwell’s futile struggles to escape his restraints and launch himself at her. He looked between them, his oval face resembling a cherry tomato as he stood still, his body seeming to shake with anger.

 

“Cornwell! In this office, now!” He rumbled, leaving no room for debate

 

Cornwell stopped struggling and stomped into the office beyond them, glowering at Maggie the whole way.

 

“Have we settled on an agreement, Neil?” Gordon asked, exhaling deep breath and turning to face the boyish district attorney who still stood frozen just outside of the open office.

The DA nodded, putting his off white Panama hat on his head and straightening it, “The Rothstein boy won’t be brought up on charges of murder, however, he will still have to be tried for trespassing on private property and burying a body on private land.”

 

Gordon nodded and put out his hand, the DA shook it quickly, then tipped his hat to Maggie after doing a double take to make sure she really was a woman, and descended calmly down the stairs like the fight in the corridor had never happened. Captain Sørensen retreated to his office, where he was speaking with Cornwell in quiet tones. Gordon took a step closer to Maggie and examined her injuries.

 

“Are you alright, Investigator?” He asked lightly. His face was stern as always, but his eyes and tone were not unsympathetic.

 

Maggie looked down at the drying blood on her fingertips, “I’m fine.”

 

Gordon divided his attention between Maggie and Bartlett who had come stand beside her, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly.

 

“Tell me what happened.” Gordon commanded.

 

They told Gordon the story. His face shifted back and forth between dour, angry, and enraged then back again. Once he had all of the facts, he dismissed the two and marched back into the office, slamming the door behind him.

 

OOOOOOOO

 

She’d cleaned as much blood off of her face and clothes as she could and shrugged on her coat, but before Maggie could leave the station for the evening, Bartlett caught her on the stairs.

 

“Heya, rookie. You did good today!” He exclaimed proudly, slapping Maggie on the back so hard that she stumbled onto the main landing.

 

“Thanks.” She wheezed, slightly. “You didn’t do so badly yourself.”

 

“So, uh, I’ve been meaning to say something and we were running around so fast earlier that I couldn’t find a good time and—”

 

Maggie cut him off before he could go any further.

 

“I’ll save you some time, Bartlett. You’re a good training officer and a nice man, but if you’re asking me to walk out with you, I’m not interested. I don’t have romantic relations with men. I have them with other women and if that’s going to be a problem, it might be best if we part ways now.”

 

Bartlett looked shocked for a second and then he recovered, waving off her presumptions with an unsure smile

 

“Oh, you thought I was—? Oh no, Sawyer, I mean you’re attractive in your own way and all, but I wasn’t going to ask you out.” The Detective explained, “I just wanted to say that—um—well I sort of figured that was the case with you—liking girls I mean. I—I just wanted to let you know that’s not gonna be an issue with me. My kid brother Lenny has this—this other guy who lives with him—he calls him his “husband” or whatnot—and I mean he treats Lenny real good and all and he seems like a decent man and I mean I ain’t no fairy…I’ve got a wife and two kids you know? But if I was a fairy like Lenny, I’d want people to respect my right to have someone and live happy you know? Someone like my Ruth is to me, she’s my rock. And I guess what I’m trying to say is that if you ever bring over a—you know—a “wife” or a companion to Sunday dinner sometime in the future, me, Ruth, and the kids, we’d be good with that.”

 

There was a pause of uncomfortable silence as Bartlett waited for a response from Maggie and Maggie struggled to find an appropriate response. So few people in her life who weren’t attracted to their own sex had ever expressed acceptance towards Maggie that she didn’t really know what to say back. Finally, she held out her hand to Bartlett to shake.

 

“Thanks, that means a lot to me,” Maggie admitted, giving Bartlett a firm handshake of understanding.

 

Then she put her hands in her pockets and continued down the stairs with Bartlett in tow.

 

“So, uh, we solved a case today,” Bartlett continued on in that frank way he said everything. “We need to go out and celebrate, Sawyer!”

 

“No, no, no,” Maggie answered immediately, shaking her head in Bartlett’s grinning face. “it’s been a long day. I just want to fall into bed and sleep for a year.”

 

“Aw, come on you old woman!” Bartlett teased with a familiarity Maggie was sure she felt yet. “What else have you got to do tonight? It’s perfect! My Ruth won’t be making dinner because she’s visiting her sister downtown with the kids and Chaplin’s _By the Sea_ just opened over at the Odeon. His Tramp’s hysterical! We should go and see it and then stop at the closest greasy spoon for a meal. We’ve earned it, partner. Eh, eh? It’ll be my treat?”

 

“Fine, but only so you stop bothering me and you understand that I’m paying my own ticket. I do have at least seven cents to my name,” Maggie relented with an eye roll, but the annoyance she was feigning wasn’t what she felt, so much as a conflation of mixed emotions from nervousness to the gratitude of being accepted for who and what she was.

 

Bartlett rolled his eyes at her stubbornness, but he still led the way down the front stoop onto the sidewalk. The Odeon was only three or so blocks away from Gotham Central, but the easy distance turned into an insurmountable slog as it began to downpour halfway there. Then they’d started to run, heedless of the traffic officers.

 

The Odeon cinema was in run down music hall. There was only one viewing room crammed with as many rickety wooden chairs as they could fit inside and a white sheet covering one wall. The opaque projector was mounted on a table in the back and there was a basket beside the operator where you deposited your seven cents before you sat down. There was also a chair in the far corner by the screen where an accordion or harpsicord player would sit and play sometimes, but he wasn’t there that night.

 

When Maggie and Bartlett hurdled inside the Odeon out of the rain, the projector operator had already started up the crank and the title and beginning images were already moving on the sheet. Maggie and Bartlett deposited their admission fees in the basket then snuck down into two empty chairs at the end of the front row, trying to disturb as few people as possible along the way, but there were the inevitable grumbles and Bartlett flipping one or two people off and then they were seated.

 

High up on the sheet, the Tramp himself was strolling down the boardwalk in that bowlegged way of his, twirling his cane in one hand as he brought a banana up to his lips with the other and took a bite. He throws the peel away and slips on it then makes his way over to a drunkard whose wife had melodramatically gestured to a place in the sand where he was to remain before leaving him there. The drunkard lost his hat then the tramp did and both of their hats flew off of their heads, entwining in midair—strings tying them to their owners occasionally noticeable—causing both men to be pulled together against their wills and absolute hilarity ensued from there.

 

Maggie was surprised to find herself caught up in the laughter with Bartlett. She’d seen slapstick films before, but she hadn’t bothered to see Chaplin’s _The Tramp_ released earlier in the year and yet the easy naïveness of how he bumbled into the other man, trying to be helpful, but causing a fight between them instead, warmed Maggie’s lonely heart. The film was like a breath of fresh air after the trying day she’d had. It didn’t take long before she felt her shoulders ease and all the stresses of her life lift off of them like they’d never been there in the first place.

 

For a moment, Maggie felt free. Truly, utterly, unmoored. She couldn’t’ remember feeling that way since…since running down the dirt road to her family’s homestead with Eliza giggling beside her…

 

The memory brought with it a subdued sense of reality creeping back into her bones as the wife reappeared up on the sheet, looking all around for her wayward drunk. Maggie immediately pushed the feeling down. She wasn’t that girl anymore. She’d grown up and she’d learned that exposing your heart to the world could be one of the most painful things and—though she hadn’t set her mind and heart against love—she hadn’t pursued any long term romantic relationships after returning to the States either.

 

Just as Maggie had resolved herself to the idea of not getting too attached to anyone, the sound of some man spitting into a spittoon in the aisle cut into her viewing pleasure. Just as Maggie turned to ask him if he could be any louder and ask him to shut up, she caught sight of a woman a few chairs down. 

 

A beautiful woman.

 

Her blonde hair was cut into a short bob that curled around the smooth angles of her jawline. Instead of the short dresses become more popular among the younger generation, she was wearing a collarless satin blouse tucked neatly into the waistband of her knickerbockers and brown leather boots that stretched up almost to her knee. There was something about her that drew Maggie’s gaze to her.

 

Then the Tramp on the screen stuck his ice cream cone in the drunk’s moustached face and the blonde laughed with the crowd around her—her eyes lighting up as her face erupted into joy at Chaplin’s antics and Maggie’s heart leapt in her chest.

 

 _What was that about not cultivating romantic relationships right now?_ Maggie scolded herself.

 

Maggie watched the woman until Chaplin and the varied gang around him tipped over their bench in the sand and the film ended before she decided fuck it and raced to the front of the aisle the moment the audience began to file out.  Maggie waited by the wall as people passed by her and as the blonde approached her—she caught Maggie’s gaze and smirked. Bartlett who was giving Maggie a look that said, ‘Really? You left me back here!’ was just visible over the attractive blonde’s shoulder, but Maggie completely forgot about him as the blonde moved off to the side and settled next to her against the wall.

 

“And who might you be, Beautiful?” The blonde woman asked, crossing her arms over her chest as the last of the crowd filed past them.

 

Maggie felt her cheeks redden at the other woman’s forwardness and was glad of the still dark theater all around them, but she smiled back just the same. “Maggie Sawyer. And you?”

 

“Toby Raines. Pleasure to meet you.”

 

Maggie’s expression blossomed into a full blown grin. Maybe her life was finally beginning to shape up after all.

 

OOOOOOOO

 

_National City—August 2016_

 

“Eliza’s worried about you.”

 

Alex looked up from her coffee cup, took a sip, and put it back down.

 

“She doesn’t need to be. I’m fine.”

 

“You don’t act fine.”

 

Across from her at their usual table at _Noonan’s_ , Kara sat, leaning forward on her elbows, hands relishing in the heat from her coffee mug and looking imploringly at Alex for answers Alex wasn’t prepared to give just yet.

 

“Alex, what is going on? Please, let me help you.“

 

Alex looked down into the darkness of her coffee cup and wished she had some whiskey to add to it to make this situation more palatable. She’d been a little preoccupied of late sure, but it was nothing her family needed to worry about. She’d found herself skipping out on the Super Friends’ weekly gatherings with flimsy excuses. She’d put off the weekly check in calls from her mother and had been throwing herself onto the front line of as many field missions as possible.

 

Twice she’d even forgotten to wear a vest—TWICE—only to notice the same time Kara had. And at least three times last week, Kara had been called to bring her home from _The Black Dragon_ because she’d been so drunk she’d gotten into bar fights, though in Alex’s defense, the first time a guy was bothering a waitress who clearly wasn’t interested and the second time she’d been approached by a friend of that guy trying to get back at her for his buddy. The third had just been a bonus.

 

“What do you want me to say?”

 

“I want you to be honest and tell me what’s going on with you?”

 

“Honestly, Kara. I’ve just been distracted is all.”

 

“By what?”

 

Alex ran a hand over her face and sat back in her chair. _My own mortality and the lack of a life I’ve lived_ , she thought to herself, but she couldn’t say that to Kara. Though they’d always bared their hearts to one another in the past, this amount of sadness of existential crisis wasn’t something Alex wanted to put on Kara’s shoulders. She already had enough on her plate being Supergirl, not to mention pretending to be human, and being one of two survivors of a now extinct race. Next to what Kara had gone through, Alex’s problems were as insignificant as a rain drop falling into a lake.

 

Alex took a deep breath and let it go, quelling the instinct to just tell Kara what was really bothering her. She decided to stick with an oversimplified version of the truth.

 

“The whole almost drowning thing a month ago. I’m not fully over it.” Alex admitted, fingers of one hand fidgeting with the spoon beside her coffee on the table.

 

Kara reached her hand across the space separating and squeezed Alex's fingers in hers reassuringly.

 

“Oh, Alex, no one is asking you to be. What happened to you was—traumatic—and it’s okay to not be okay. Just be you.”

 

“That’s just it Kara, I—I don’t know who that woman is anymore. I—” Alex faltered as she tried to collect her thoughts into the right words. “It’s like—I don’t know—I know who I’m supposed to be on some non-conscious level and yet in living my life, I’m not even able to figure how to even start becoming that person.”

 

Kara just nodded, regarding Alex with her eyebrows raised in worry and her entire face a mask of concern as if at any moment Kara might fly her back to Midvale like she was a sick child who needed to be nursed back to health by her mother.

 

“Don’t look at me like that, Kara, I’ll be—,“ Alex’s words tapered off as she looked down to where Kara’s attention had drifted, “—fine.”

 

A grey peppered muzzle was perched on the edge of the table across from Alex, belonging to a dog with matching dark swathes of fur extending from its semi-erect ears, across the eyes, and down around the rest of the head. The dog looked at Alex with soft brown eyes and when it noticed Alex looking back at it, the dog’s tail started thumping into the floor as it wagged happily.

 

“Hi there,” Alex greeted. “Where did you come from, huh buddy?”

 

The dog whined and nosed slightly closer in Alex’s direction as if it were desperately in need of attention. Alex reached out her hand experimentally and when the mutt just titled its head to be petted, Alex started scratching its ears.

 

“Who do you belong to huh?” Alex asked, quietly.

 

“Maybe he’s lost?” Kara supplied.

 

“Well, he’s definitely not a stray.” Alex leaned farther over the table, examining the dog. Its body was colored similarly to the fur on its head, but it looked well cared for and healthy. “He has a collar on and a leash—”

 

“Buster!”

 

The shout cut through Alex’s thoughts like a knife. The dog whimpered and lowered its head and ears. Not a second later, Detective Maggie Sawyer came sprinting around the half-moon serving counter and reached forward to grab onto the dog’s collar with a hand.

 

“I’m so sorry about this! My friend and I stopped in for breakfast and Buster slunk away while we were making our orders. I hope—” the detective stopped talking as she looked up from the dog she was holding to meet Alex’s eyes.

 

And Alex felt like she was falling, but in a good way. Like she was in a different dimension. One in which there was only ever her and Maggie. Kara cleared her throat and Alex blinked herself back to reality. They were back in _Noonan’s_. Kara was still sitting across from her, Maggie was standing beside the table holding Buster’s collar, the only sign that she’d been as effected as Alex was a slight pink sheen to her cheeks.

 

Alex cleared her throat too and sat up. When she spoke her voice was unsteady, “So, he’s yours? He? She?”

 

“He. Yeah,” Maggie replied.

 

The detective smiled that easy smile of hers and Alex felt her heart beat doubly fast for a couple seconds as the beautiful view captivated her. Maggie broke the spell when Buster butted his head against her leg and she looked down to scratch behind his ear. Maggie’s attention shifted from Buster up to Kara.

 

“Kara, right? You’re the sister,” Maggie tried.

 

“Yup, that’s me,” Kara said, her friendly Catco intern smile already on her face. “And this is Alex.”

 

“Oh, I remember,” Maggie said, returning her attention to Alex.

 

Bette chose just then to saunter over to them, two mugs of coffee in her hands.

 

“I wish this coffee was Irish.” She grumped.

 

Maggie looked at her, “You say that a lot.”

 

“I mean it a lot,” Bette quipped back.

 

Alex felt her face heat up as that glorious smile of Maggie’s was directed towards the new blonde woman and an indeterminable flare of jealousy sparked to life inside of her. When Maggie turned, she must’ve caught Alex’s bleak expression because she quickly started introducing the blonde.

 

“Alex Danvers, Kara Danvers, this is my friend Bette Kane.”

 

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Bette said politely.

 

Alex found herself speaking before she’d even thought about what she was saying, “How do you two know each other?”

 

Everyone turned to Alex, seemingly different levels of confused and amused by the question. Maggie pushed a lock of hair behind her ear and looked at Bette.

 

“Oh, we go way back,” Maggie said.

 

“Yes,” Bette said, playing along. “We’ve been friends for at least thirty years.”

 

Alex looked between the two of them, then looked at Kara, then back at the two women who looked like they were trying in vain not to laugh. Bette didn’t look much older than thirty something so Alex assumed they must be family of some kind or old family friends. When she caught, Maggie’s eyes, the woman chuckled, but didn’t look away.

 

“I’m a friend of her family,” Maggie admitted, before switching the focus from her to them. “So, are the two of your having a sister day or something?”

 

“No, in fact, I was just leaving for work. It was good to see you again, Maggie. Bette. See you, later Alex.”

 

Kara rose, balling up her napkin on the plate, and giving Alex a not so subtle meaningful look that said, ‘we’ll talk about this later.’

 

“You know, I should get back to our table or they won’t know where to bring the food. Come on, Buster,” Bette gave Maggie an even less subtle raise of her eyebrows before collecting Buster’s leash from Maggie and walking away, leaving Alex and Maggie to their own devices.

 

Alex swallowed hard, “I didn’t call you. After you gave me your card, I mean. I look at it every day and think of calling you, but I haven’t been able to summon up the courage to do it.”

 

Maggie took Alex’s words as an invitation and sat down in Kara’s vacated chair. She studied Alex with sympathetic eyes.

 

“What’s been stopping you?” the detective asked softly.

 

“I didn’t want you to think I was weird and—I don’t know—we’ve only met once. Once and a half if you count that day we literally collided on the sidewalk,” Alex said.

 

“It’s not weird, Danvers. I gave you my card remember?”

 

The comment brought an instant grin to Alex’s face. Maggie had given Alex her card. Maggie had thought of her. Alex swept a lock of her chin length hair behind her ear and met Maggie’s eyes again shyly.

 

“To be honest, I thought you’d probably have forgotten me by now.”

 

“Are you kidding me?” Maggie asked her, that wide Alex-only grin spreading over her face and giving Alex heart palpitations. “Danvers, no one could ever forget you. You’re like a super sexy giant.”

 

“Giant, really?” Alex asked.

 

Maggie folded her arms across the tabletop and winked. “You’re taller than me.”

 

Alex rolled her eyes, “Yeah, well that’s not hard to do.”

 

Maggie let out an indignant huff of air and the next thing Alex knew, a balled up napkin was being hurled at her face. Alex smacked it on the floor a couple of inches from her face and laughed, feeling more lighthearted than she had in weeks.

 

“Take that back, Danvers!”

 

“Oh yeah, what are you going to do to me if I don’t—oh Jeez!”

 

Alex saw Maggie shaking the ketchup bottle and glowering at her and flinched, throwing her hands up in front of her to protect herself against a deluge of tomato slime that never came. Alex heard Maggie chuckle and dropped her hands.

 

“Gotcha,” Maggie said.

 

They both broke out into laughter. When it quieted down and they could breathe again, Alex stretched comfortably in her chair and focused on Maggie across from her.

 

“This is the most fun I’ve had in—,” Alex stopped to think, then continued. “I don’t know how long.”

 

“All work and no play isn’t healthy, Danvers. You have to laugh at least once a day, it keeps the Grim Reaper away.”

 

That was one of the more absurd things Alex had ever heard. She shook her head, “Where did you hear that?”

 

“In my head,” Maggie admitted.

 

Their gazes locked once again and Alex couldn’t find the strength to break eye contact. Being near Maggie was addicting. It felt somewhere in between the adrenaline rush Alex felt riding her Ducati at full speed and the comfortable feeling of sinking into her memory foam mattress after nearly twenty-four hours of non-stop work. It was exhilarating and familiar at the same time. Alex didn’t know how that was possible and she didn’t care, but she did know that she didn’t want it to end.

 

“Would you like to hang out with me sometime?”

 

Maggie’s voice was just as breathless as Alex’s, “Yes. When?”

 

“Uh,” Alex rubbed the back of her head sheepishly and laughed at herself. “I actually haven’t thought that far ahead yet.”

 

There was an awkward silence as Alex tried to control her overwhelming sense of embarrassment because apparently she sucked in social situations that had nothing to do with work and Maggie just watched her, thoughtfully.

 

“How about tomorrow night?” Maggie asked, finally.

 

“Perfect. Where?”

 

Maggie smirked, “It’s a surprise. Text me so I can put your number in my phone and we’ll hash out the details later.”

 

“That would be awesome,” Alex said. Her cheeks hurt because of how wide she was grinning, but she was happy and that feeling alone was worth the discomfort.

 

“Coolsies,” Maggie replied.

 

The detective stood and Alex felt herself automatically following suit without thinking.

 

“I better get back to my table. I ordered French Toast and I have a feeling that Bette might switch the plates and eat it if I don’t get back to her. She denies it, but she has a weakness for sugary breakfast foods.”

 

Maggie turned, looking over her shoulder at Alex, a move Alex was sure would put her in cardiac arrest without any effort.

 

“See you around, Danvers.”

 

Alex nodded, dumbly. Unable to form words as those gorgeous dimples turned away from her and disappeared into the other side of the restaurant. The atmosphere suddenly felt cold around Alex, like the air conditioning had been jacked up too high all at once, but Alex was so warm that she could’ve travelled on foot to the North Pole and not felt the temperature drop. She bit her lip, trying and failing to keep her excitement at bay.

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Too much? Not enough? What did you like and not like and what would you like to maybe see more of? Also, if anyone is interested in the history of ladies loving ladies in the early 1900s, hit me up for some book suggestions. There are so many incredible women who lived and loved and were mostly forgotten by wider history, but whose lives helped make mine as an out lesbian possible in a way. One of my favorites is Natalie Clifford Barney, which is why I shamelessly plug her anywhere in the story that she could’ve had a role. Debating in a later chapter on having Maggie go back to Paris, is that something anyone would be interested in seeing as a part of Maggie’s backstory? What do you guys think? Also, I know I haven’t shown the flashback where Maggie is turned immortal, but it is coming and hopefully in the next chapter.
> 
> Worked super hard on this chapter guys. Hope it was enjoyed by all. Whether or not you did, kindly leave a comment on the way out. 
> 
> One more P.S.- You can actually watch Chaplin's 'By the Sea' on youtube. The movies back then weren't very long, usually 5-15 minutes, and though a lot of them were lost, this wasn't one of those and it's actually quite entertaining if you're interested in slapstick and such.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Beauty That Thrills Me With Wonder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter explores more of Maggie’s life in the present and of course her long awaited date with Alex. I chose to do this because I could literally write a full novel length fic just on Maggie’s immortal life experiences alone and I fear including them too much might slow the story down so I’ve only included two flashbacks in this one, both serve a purpose that might not be immediately apparent, but I hope you enjoy them all the same. Second, this chapter deals a lot with grief, pain of loss, and talk of possible death and aging. I did this because I don’t think someone like Maggie could live forever without being marked by an overwhelming sense of the loss of people, places, and times that only now exist within her head. Also, my family has suffered a decade of loss that took everyone from parents, uncles, grandparents, great-aunts, and great-uncles to the point where I would say we were averaging at least one funeral every year and I am still struggling with coming out of that so I put a bit of that into Maggie and I hope, hope, hope that won’t make you guys lose faith in her journey or in this story as a whole. I promise you, the title of this story isn’t predictive. There are so many good things to come for these characters and I look forward to sharing them with each and every one of you. 
> 
> Please enjoy this chapter and leave a comment on the way out if you have the time. Happy reading!

_Gotham City—August 1915_

Maggie sipped on the coffee in her French porcelain cup, reading and re-reading the headline of the article shoved onto the bottom right corner of the _Gotham_ _Gazette_ ’s front page.

 

‘BRIDES IN THE BATH KILLER’ GEORGE JOSEPH SMITH FINALLY MEETS HIS END

 

A line or so beneath that was a smaller heading centered above the main article: _Famous Pathologist Praises Justice Done_. _See pg. 18 for details._

 

 _There’s another win for Doctor Spilsbury_ , Maggie thought to herself, nurturing a proud smile. She’d only been with the Gotham Police Department for four months, but Maggie still liked to entertain the notion sometimes that she could throw on a white jacket, lean over a microscope next to her famous onetime idol. and not look out of place. Most of the time though, Maggie was satisfied with her life as it was. For the first time in her life, she felt…settled and content.

 

Maggie looked up around her. She was seated in an outside table of the Café De La Vie—one of the few cafes in Gotham city to have been actually founded by a French person before all things French became a popular trend. On the street, automobiles swerved dangerously around the few horse carts that remained and honking at trolleys in annoyance when they were forced to slow down or pull over because of them. The city air smelled like a mixture of petrol, horseshit, and decay and while unpleasant—that was Gotham—and Maggie found that the stuff barely bothered her anymore.

 

She was so immersed in the article that the special investigator jumped when another newspaper suddenly covered her own, the new headline stretching boldly over the front of _The Gotham Post_ taking preference.

 

LADY DETECTIVE HERO NABS GOTHAM BOOGEYMAN

 

“Congratulations, hero cop,” Toby Raines said, pulling the strap of her messenger over her head and plopping down in the chair opposite Maggie.

 

Maggie groaned and covered her face with her hands. Fucking press.

 

“I don’t understand what their obsession is with me. I’m just doing my job.”

 

“Yeah, but you’re a lady copy—the first ever lady cop in this city—doing your job, that makes you a novelty. Besides, this headline and mine on the _Gazette_ are two of the more subdued ones on the newsstand. _The Tribune_ ’s was ‘LADY JUSTICE RIDES AGAIN’ and _The Herald’s_ was, ‘MS. SHERLOCK HOLMES BRINGS DOWN CHILD KILLING FIEND.’ “

 

Maggie dropped her hands and looked at Toby as she started to laugh. A waitress came over to the table and poured Toby a coffee. Then she topped Maggie’s off and glanced down at the front page of the newspaper where an illustrated facsimile of Maggie arresting a dour looking old man looked back up at them. The facsimile’s features had been expertly rendered to match Maggie’s. The illustrator must’ve been at the station when she’d brought Martin "Mad Dog" Hawkins in for the murders.

 

The waitress’s eyes popped back up to Maggie and widened—snapping back and forth from the picture to the detective and back again.

 

She must’ve realized she’d been staring for a few seconds when Toby cleared her throat loudly, because the girl looked away and her cheeks reddened. Then she did a clumsy approximation of a curtesy and said, “It’s an honor to meet you, Ma’am.”

 

Maggie’s eyes went as large as dinner plates as the waitress retreated back inside the café and her face colored in embarrassment as Toby guffawed so hard she was gasping for breath by the time she’d calmed down.

 

“I’m so glad you’re finding this funny,” Maggie glowered, taking a sip of too hot coffee and flipping over _The Gotham Post_ so the offensive article and illustration were out of sight.

 

Toby took and released a deep breath and wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes, “Christ, that was worth getting up at the ass crack of dawn for on a day I don’t even have an article due. Whoo!”

 

Maggie ignored her, still sipping gingerly at her too hot coffee and going back to the story in the _Gazette_ she’d been reading before Toby even arrived.

 

“I have to say, you’re developing quite a reputation for yourself. Monikers for you created by my colleagues now include: The Girl Scout, The Lady Detective, Lady Protector of the City, and Ms. Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Maggie sighed. Unable to focus, she pushed the _Gazette_ away from her and looked resignedly back up at Toby.

 

“Yeah, well tell your colleagues I’m just a cop, not some oddity in Barnum & Bailey’s Circus. I’ve never even read Sherlock Holmes and that would make their nickname for me—Ms. Sherlock Holmes—oxymoronic because I don’t believe in deduction, just observation and common sense.”

 

Toby blew a raspberry at Maggie and waved her reasonings away like some fearful miasma, “Technicalities, Sawyer. The public doesn’t care about that and no reporter worth their salt would let the truth get in the way of framing a good story.”

 

“Oh ho, so what you’re saying is not even the investigative journalist cares about the actual truth, huh? Whoa, onto your career then.” Maggie quipped.

 

Toby narrowed her eyes and flipped Maggie off, raising her middle finger daintily instead of her pinky as she lifted her coffee cup to her lips and smiling politely all the way. Maggie chuckled, amused despite the low simmering embarrassment still rolling around in her belly. Toby was a good egg. Their relationship together had run the gambit from acquaintances to hot and heavy lovers with no strings attached to exes who couldn’t seem to avoid one another before circling back around to acquaintances and finally vaulting ass forward into a deep friendship that so far seemed to be equally important to both of them. Maggie’s dynamic with Toby was one of the most confusing ones she’d ever been a part of in her life—not because of the way they squabbled like old biddies or were bluntly honest with one another to the point of pain—but because of their past history. Maggie had never kept in contact with an ex-lover and every one of their encounters seemed to stir up an unruly cocktail of emotions within her.

 

“So will your Boogeyman be tried for multiple kidnappings and murder or just for the Ricco girl?” Toby asked, her tone indifferent and seemingly uninterested in the answer, but the way her honey colored eyes scrutinized Maggie over the lip of her coffee cup gave away her inquisitiveness.

 

“That depends,” Maggie countered, both of her hands on either side of her coffee cup, enjoying the heat permeating through her fingertips in the early morning chill. “Are you asking as my friend or as the investigative crime reporter of the _Gazette_?”

 

“I’m whatever you need me to be, sweetums,” Toby cooed, copying Maggie’s protective posture around her now tableside coffee cup and leaning forward so she could gaze more directly into Maggie’s dark eyes.

 

 _Except one very important thing_ , Maggie thought, breaking eye contact and focusing on the white table cloth and difference of the vivid grey newspaper against it.

 

 _It isn’t you, sugar,_ Toby had told her, laying beside Maggie in her bed, taking lazy puffs off of a cigarette in the dark. _I’m just not the romantic partner type of person. We can spend nights like this together though until we’re blue in the face. I don’t have a problem with that, but long term isn’t something I’m built for._

 

Maggie had declined the offer and left. Though in her mind she’d known theirs had been a casual sex-only relationship, that didn’t stop Maggie’s heart from getting attached and wanting more than the beautiful blonde reporter was willing to give. At, first Maggie had been bitter about it, but when they kept meeting at crime scenes and Toby’s serialized rehearsed apologies continued to come out of her mouth at every subsequent meeting, Maggie had finally let the hurt go and they’d evolved from there.

 

Maggie smirked and met Toby’s gaze again, this time with a more confident edge.

 

“I am not at liberty to discuss the details of cases currently pending investigation or in the process of criminal litigation,” Maggie repeated the byline that had almost become an automatic answer to any questions asked about any of her cases in the past few months. It was her job to catch the criminals, not dish about them to the public. “Call the Commissioner if you have an issue with that.”

 

Toby’s eyes darkened and she pushed back from the table in annoyance, “I did. The stick-up-his-ass ‘no commented’ me. Ugh, it’s stupid. You know, my first ever criminal case as a reporter was for my home town newspaper. Did I tell you? I was sent down from Cleveland to La Porte, Indiana to cover the Belle Gunness murders in ’08. Cops weren’t nearly as stingy with the information they were willing to give out then.”

 

 “Forgive me for holding myself to a higher standard,” Maggie quipped. “Is this why you wanted to meet me here this morning? To ask questions you know I won’t give you the answers to?”

 

“Actually,” Toby said, her eyes lighting up as she scooted conspiratorially back to the table as if the last five minutes of their conversation had never happened. “I asked you here because I’m going into court this morning and I wanted you to come with me.”

 

“What for?”

 

“Because: one, it isn’t a case you’ve worked on to my knowledge so there isn’t a conflict of interest having you there as an objective observer and two, because there is someone I want you to meet,” Toby explained, not giving too much away.

 

Maggie studied the woman across from her. Her blonde hair had been done up in a rounded pompadour, though—with no hat pinned over it—the detective in her could tell the style had been done in haste. Tiny wisps of blonde hair had fallen from the bun at the top holding everything up—having been tucked behind Toby’s Gibson Girl ears. Her eyes were the same honey color as ever, but as Maggie took in her face, she noticed light blotches under the sheen of foundation cream and light peach powder of her cheeks. Was she flushed? Nervous maybe? Embarrassed? Aroused even? Maggie shook the last one from her mind. She and Toby hadn’t been lovers for a couple of months. Maggie had focused on her work and Toby had been—well—Toby, living adventurously and sleeping with a different beautiful woman she seduced every couple of nights.

 

 _Nerves_ , Maggie’s gut told her _. She’s nervous about something_.

 

“Why is it so important to you that I come with you?” Maggie asked, not unkindly.

 

Toby finished her coffee and pushed her empty cup and saucer towards the side of the table, then folded her hands together in the space where they’d previously been.

 

“Because—I have to interview the prosecuting attorney in the case and—I—I’ve never interviewed a lawyer of her caliber before. I’ve known of her for a while, it’s hard not to. I mean the woman runs a law practice offering legal advice and services for the poor and the immigrants who are taken advantage of in the boroughs. Surely, you must’ve seen one of her cards meandering about? They’re printed in Italian, Spanish, Yiddish, German, etc.”

 

Maggie thought about it. She’d met a lot of people, both suspects and otherwise who’d spoken of this lady lawyer who took on the impossible and often won in one way or another. Maggie had just assumed she was being told these things because she was the ‘lady cop’ and the people she interviewed had concluded that the ‘lady cop’ and the ‘lady lawyer’ should at least know of one another if for no other reason than they shared a sex.

 

“Do you mean Kate Spencer?”

 

“Yeah, that’s the one! She runs the Hoi-polloi Law Firm on the corner of West 52nd and Leonard Ave. I tried to call her office, but the operator couldn’t connect me because the line was swamped. So I decided to go there to interview her yesterday, but there was a queue of people literally around the block waiting to see her already, so I figured, one of her more prominent cases goes to trial today, why not show up and—”

 

“Doorstop her?” Maggie offered with a rueful grin.

 

Toby shrugged without shame, “Basically, yes.”

 

“And you need me for this why?”

 

“Because she’s a lawyer and lawyers aren’t usually fond of meddling reporters, but you are a cop and I figured having you there with me would lend more gravitas to my mission.”

 

“So, you’re asking me to do you a favor is what I’m hearing?”

 

Color ran higher in Toby’s cheeks as Maggie grinned for all she was worth and crossed her arms over her chest expectantly. It wasn’t often the adventure seeking, daredevil, oversexed female Casanova Ms. Raines asked anyone for help and Maggie was going to take full advantage of this opportunity. The reporter dropped her gaze, but nodded and affirmation.

 

“Oh, that’s not going to work. I need to hear you say it out loud.”

 

“I need you to help me,” Toby muttered under her breath.

 

“What was that?” Maggie said, turning her ear towards the increasingly surly looking blonde on the other side of the table. “I couldn’t hear you.”

 

“I need your goddamn arrogant ass to help me damn it!” Toby said, a little louder than was necessary for polite conversation, drawing the stares of several breakfast goers around them. “Are you happy now?”

 

Maggie finished her coffee in a swift gulp, and stretched languidly before standing up. “Very.”

 

“Oh, don’t look so damn pleased with yourself,” Toby griped.

 

 “Like you wouldn’t be if our situations were reversed?” Maggie pulled out a few dollar bills from her pocket and dropped them on the table. “What time is the trial?”

 

“Nine sharp so we have plenty of time to get across the city, you know, if we run,” Toby said, just now realizing it was 8:30 and they wouldn’t get there in time to see the trial start.

 

“We could make it in time if we catch the next GRT train Downtown,” Maggie commented, opening the waist high iron gate to the barrier that separated Café goers from the street.

 

“Ugh, why oh why, didn’t I wake up earlier this morning?” Toby bemoaned, walking beside her as they made their way down the sidewalk towards the entrance to the Burnley Street Station. “I hate underground trains. If God had meant for people to ride mechanical beasts beneath a city, I feel like that crap would be written down somewhere.”

 

“How do you know it isn’t?”

 

“Because the way these zealots prattle on and on about their holy book,” Toby muttered, pointing to the Church of St. Cecily as they walked speedily by. “We definitely would’ve heard of it by now.”

 

“You have a problem with the GRT, complain to the Kanes. Rumor has it they paid for most of it because the Waynes wouldn’t.”

 

“Can’t be rumor if it’s true.” Toby stated, with a look of disgust. “I would complain too if I didn’t find their _representative_ —if she can even be called that—so abhorrent.”

 

Maggie’s eyebrows came together as she thought, “Representative? You mean Kate Kane, the heiress? What do you have against her?”

 

“Oh, where to begin. For starters, she’s beautiful and she knows it. She’s also arrogant, self-centered, adventurous, vain, and worst of all—a playgirl who’s careless with other women’s hearts.”

 

The words left Maggie’s mouth before she could stop them, “So she’s basically you, but with more money?”

 

“MARGARET ELLEN SAWYER! Shame on you!” Toby shrieked, earning the attention of an elderly couple passing them by. “It may be true that I share most of if not all of those qualities, but at least I have them in moderation. With Kate Kane, what you see is basically what you get. She’s the complete opposite of the lawyer Kate Spencer or at least, that’s what I hear.”

 

They descended the stairs to the underground station. The platform was lit by oblong electric lightbulbs, but it was still dark and dank and crowded compared to the light of the sun. The platform butted up against the actual tunnel originally hewn out of bedrock beneath Gotham, which was barely large enough for a single train to squeeze through. The Burnley to William Street Line had been one of the earliest of the underground train lines to open and it definitely still looked like it. There was a disquieting silence as the people waited, jostling amongst themselves for elbow and shoulder room. A child wailed from somewhere, a man in a trilby cursed, checking his pocket watch, and Toby—Maggie noticed—was trying her best not to hyperventilate as her claustrophobia took full hold over her. Maggie squeezed her hand in support, but no words passed between them.

 

It had become overly warm, sweat starting to bead beneath men’s paper collars and the old fashioned chin high bodice’s most women wore. Even Maggie was starting to feel a little moist and uncomfortable in her tweed three piece suit before there was a whistle and their train came rolling down dark the tracks. The great machine stopped with a heave and everyone attempted to squeeze into the Pullman cars at once. Toby—whether having pushed others aside or relinquishing her dignity and crawling between people’s feet until she was safely seated—had beaten nearly everyone into the car, taking up residence in a cowhide upholstered seat and continuing to take in deep measured breaths with her eyes closed.

 

The interior of their Flivver was hotter than it had been on the platform. It smelled like sweat and scant refuse. The walls though were painted a pleasant olive green and there were electric lights at intervals in the center of the ceiling. There were cowhide seats, though they were few and far between and had to be supplemented by rough wooden chairs attached to the wall, the bottoms of which had to be pulled down to be sat upon—and once you were seated—the likelihood of getting a splinter was almost assured.

 

There were a few aluminum poles by the doors and peppered in between seats as they were in trolley cars. Maggie grabbed onto the one in front of Toby and gave her a wink before Maggie was pushed against the wall by the entering crowd. The train then took off on its rough, jerky way to Old Gotham and Civic Square. By the time their train stopped at the Williams Street Station, it had become increasingly hard to breathe and the sweltering of crushed together bodies had become so oppressive that once the Pullman doors shuddered open, Maggie found herself running the stairs up onto the street then stopping to wait for Toby before proceeding to catch her breath.

 

Toby gasped for air, stopping to lean on the iron railing surrounding the stairway as she finally emerged into freedom. “What happened to no man left behind?”

 

“That’s the military,” Maggie defended herself. “Not the GCPD.”

 

“I hate you sometimes, you know,” Toby admitted, wheezing.

 

“The feeling is entirely mutual,” Maggie conceded, stretching then pulling at the stud that attached the collar to her shirt.

 

Once they’d sufficiently recovered themselves, they continued on foot at a more sedate pace to the Gotham County Courthouse. Maggie had been in the tall Greco-Roman building many times, usually to testify to evidence presented in a criminal case, but she’d never shown up in her spare time as a spectator and it surprised her how full the benches were when they entered the main courtroom.

 

It hadn’t surprised her though to find that the trial was already in session and that it was a lady lawyer—dressed smartly in a black wool suit jacket and matching skirt punctuated with blue pinstripes and a men’s straw dress hat with a purple and gold hat band—who was questioning a middle aged man sitting in the dock much to the bemusement of the audience.

 

“Mr. Watkins, please state to the court, your relationship to the plaintiff,” the lawyer said, annunciating her words so that all gathered could hear.

 

The middle aged man in a tan three piece suit cleared his throat and sat up straighter, “I’m the co-owner and managing Executive Officer of the Mount Vernon Guernsey & Shirtwaist Company.”

 

Maggie felt hot air puff against her neck and ear as Toby leaned into her and whispered, “There’s our huckleberry. Isn’t she just magnificent?”

 

Maggie found that her throat was too dry to respond given the overbearing warmth of the room, but she nodded after Toby moved back into her seat fully, watching as the lady lawyer paced languidly in front of Mr. Watkins. 

 

“And your headquarters—are—or were located in the Ash Building at 1911 Addams Square in Gotham city is that correct?”

 

“Yes, but everyone knows that.” Mr. Watkins blundered indignantly.

 

“Everyone does now, Mr. Watkins.” Kate said, with a cocky grin. Then she began pacing calmly between the witness stand and the jury box with her hands clasped behind her back like an at ease soldier. “Everyone in this courtroom also knows that prior to the massive fire in your main factory on March 25, 1915 at that address—where 150 workers in your care were subsequently burned alive—that those same employees had been on strike not two weeks earlier for a period of three months protesting ‘intolerable and unsafe’ working conditions. Those same workers made an accord with you and your business partner, Mr. Kurt Robbins, to return to work in return for higher wages, lower hours, and more safety precautions. Now, ladies and gentlemen of the court—it must be said that this accord was struck out of desperation because those worker’s families were starving and on the cusp of being thrown out of their own homes—and all of it done by verbal agreement and without the protection of a union because that was the only condition upon which Mr. Watkins and Mr. Robbins would concede to the other requests.”

 

Kate Spencer turned back to Mr. Watkins, looking into his eyes and asking, “Mr. Watkins, did any of those things you promised your workers come to pass in the two weeks between the employee strike and the devastating fire of March 25?”

 

“Objection!” the business owner’s attorney—a short doughy man with a long handlebar mustache and a wild head of hair—stood up and banged his fist down upon the defense’s table. “I fail to see what this line of questioning has to do precisely with this fire on March 25.”

 

Kate Spencer spun around on the heels of her feet, meeting the defense attorney’s eyes in direct challenge, but her voice was as calm as if she were pouring herself a cup of tea. “Did you attend law school, Mr. Burgess?”

 

A guffaw came from somewhere in the audience followed by a rising tide of low murmuring voices.

 

The other lawyer’s face turned beet red and he actually stomped his foot onto the hardwood floor, before proceeding to throw and adult version of a small child’s tantrum, “Your honor, I demand that Mrs. Spencer retract that statement and apologize for her rude unladylike behavior!! She challenges and demeans the respect of myself, the court, and the nation whose laws it defends!”

 

The judge didn’t even have time to lift his gavel to call for order before Kate Spencer launched into one of her legendary diatribes.

 

“No, Mr. Burgess! It is you and your client who challenge and demean the respect of this court and the nation it protects! We are a nation of workers that venture capitalists take advantage of. Without us, businessmen like your clients wouldn't have fortunes. These poor factory girls were not to blame for what happened to them. Your client is! The fire escapes in their building were made of untreated wood and only reached to the windows of the 7th out of 11 floors. The service lift to Addams Square was so small and under maintained that no matter how heroic the lift operator had been—he’d only been able to go back up twice before the lift broke down and women started jumping in desperation down the elevator shaft as the flames threatened to devour them. The only other exit from the building was a pair of doors kept locked by the foreman until the end of the day when the workers leaving were searched to make sure they hadn’t pilfered a measly roll of thread or a swath of cloth. The end of day bell hadn’t sounded yet on that day, however, so the door was locked and the man with the keys had fled without any concern for the many others who depended upon him for their survival! ” Kate Spencer said loudly, gesturing wildly with her hands as she spoke almost as if she were directing some invisible orchestra.

 

“And what’s worse—what truly makes your clients, Mr. Robbins and Mr. Watkins, legally guilty if not morally bankrupt—is the fact that when the secretary on the 1st floor telephoned them in their offices to sound the alarm that one of the sewing machines had overheated and gone up in flames, they didn’t warn their workers on the top floors—the youngest of whom was a girl of 10 and the oldest a 72 year old master seamstress from Italy—that a fire had even started. Instead, your decent, law abiding clients escaped via the roof and climbed over onto the next building to make their cowardly descent to safety. The workers they left behind didn’t know there even was a fire until it was too late and by then—the flames had them trapped. The firemen—when they eventually came—raised their ladders, but their ladders only reached up to the building’s sixth floor windows. Too low, to save the women who’d been abandoned to their fates.”

 

Mr. Burgess had gone pale and the entire courtroom was listening to and watching Kate Spencer with rapt attention as she stepped up on the table for the defense—the table where Kurt Robbins was sitting flabbergasted—and continued passionately relating the facts of the largest industrial tragedy ever seen in the city up to that point right in front of one of the men who’d caused it.

 

“The firemen couldn’t reach the 200 women who worked on the highest floors. Women who were killed when the wooden fire escape burned away beneath their feet. Women whose anguished screams could be heard by dock workers as far away as the Otisburg District on the mainland. And the rest of the women your clients left behind? The ones who hadn’t been burned alive, or leapt down an elevator shaft, or fallen off the only fire escape—they eventually became so desperate that they jumped out of the windows rather let the flames take them. Their broken bodies littered the pavement from the edge of Addams Square to the corner of Green Street.”  

 

Kate Spencer hopped down from the defense desk and rounded on all gathered in the court room, pointing back at a few black clad families seated on the plaintiff’s bench.

 

“Now, you look into the faces of my clients, look them straight in the eyes and tell them that Mr. Robbins and Mr. Watkins didn’t fail their loved ones on March 25th when they escaped that building without warning anyone of the danger to their lives. Tell them that their wives, mothers, daughters, sisters, sweethearts, nieces, grandmothers, sons, nephews, husbands, and fathers weren’t worth the two minutes it would’ve taken to warn the foremen on the upper floors so the Addams Square entrance could’ve been unlocked in time for them to get out. Tell them that the lives of their loved ones, killed because of the malicious neglect of these two great captains of industry, weren’t worth the slight loss in profits it would’ve cost them to make the safety upgrades previously suggested by the city fire commissioner. Tell them you’re sorry for their losses even, but don’t insult them by daring to claim without a shadow of a doubt that the blood of their lost loved ones isn’t on the hands of Mr. Robbins and Mr. Watkins. They failed these women and men once. If they’re acquitted here today of wrong doing, then we will all be failing those poor lost souls a second time. The prosecution has no more questions for the defendant at this time, your honor.”

 

OOOOOOOO

_National City—August 2016_

 

 Every new day begins with waking up. Waking up begins with recognizing yourself as “I”. Then as the mind makes the body suck in oxygen and takes in more of its surroundings, it adds, “am.” By the time Maggie rolls her head to the side to see the sunlight streaming in through the glass of the bow window that covers the wall opposite her queen bed from floor to ceiling, her brain adds, “here” and “now.” Then the pieces are strung together as she stares up at the plaster above her.

 

 _I am here now_ , she acknowledges, remembering where and when she was.

 

The phrase runs through her mind a couple of times, then she yawns, rolls out of a tangle of bedsheets and a sleeping dog, and pads down the stairs into the open kitchen where she starts the coffee grinder. The apartment Maggie occupied stretched the entire top floor of Kane Tower. It’d been built by Eustace Kane back in 1900 as a monument to all of the money the Kane’s had made on the west coast through expanding their various business ventures through railroads that connected one backwater town to another until a modern city cropped up.

 

Kane Tower was an office building back then, with the top floor reserved for executive officers and their clerks, but Maggie had gutted it when she’d arrived in California and remodeled it into an open warehouse loft apartment. There was a top level where the master bedroom, a guestroom, and a bathroom were and then below there was the kitchen which bled into the open dining and a living rooms leading on towards the front door.

 

Maggie had lived all over the world in her lifetime, but she’d had very few places in her life that had felt like home. This apartment was undeniably hers. She’d put her blood, sweat, and tears into molding dilapidated yellow and orange brick into a space she could relax in. Other tenants lived in converted apartments below Maggie, but they didn’t know her personally and why should they? The building and a share of the Kane properties had been willed to her a long time ago, but she had an executor who handled the details of all of that.

 

She was just a cop. A long lived cop. With almost no surviving family and very few friends. Biological immortality wasn’t conducive to making and keeping long term relationships that could take root and grow in one place because eventually everyone Maggie cared about would grow old and die and then she’d have to start all over: change her surname, get a new SSN, have official documents forged and implanted into Federal databases, make up new cities of origin, and fake the life and experiences of a whole new person when all Maggie ever really wanted was to just be herself and be _loved_ for herself.

 

But Maggie knew she couldn’t have that. A mad little chemist and a freak accident had made sure of that in 1921.

 

While her smart coffeemaker started to brew, she walked over to the corner junction where kitchen cabinets butted up against the brick wall and an antique sideboard had been squeezed between granite countertop and French balcony doors. Maggie knelt, opened one of the drawers carefully, and pulled out a dusty leather bound book. She set it down on the kitchen island, pulled up a barstool to sit on, and opened it. The cover was loose and needed to be flipped gently, but most of the art nouveau matted pages were intact, still holding their celluloid portraits: fragmented memories of people and places in a world that didn’t exist anymore.

 

Maggie flipped a page. Inside was a matted black and white portrait. Like all of their gloriously rebellious photos back then, it was dramatic. Maggie was leaning against a wall, one hand hidden behind her, the other holding a dark mask that covered half of her face leaving the other half of her free to stare flirtatiously back at the observer. She was wearing a tailored three piece suit that made her sleek frame look sharp and dangerous. Maggie had posed for that one in 1922 or ‘23? She couldn’t quite remember.

 

What a fool she’d been back then.

 

She flipped another page. This one wasn’t made of patterned cardboard, but simple black paper upon which two black and white photos had been pasted. The one of the left showed Maggie, her friends Kate Spencer, Toby Raines, and her very own Kate Kane leaning against a bar, cradling drinks in their hands like they hadn’t a care in the world. The one next to that showed Maggie standing next to Joe Bartlett in front of a new Ford Model T, neither one of them smiling, just looking at the camera as if it were a spectator to this one moment shared in both of their lives. Maggie flipped the black paper, which gave way to another matted page with room for only one photo in the rounded square center of the cardboard.

 

It was a professional portrait slightly browned by time.  In it, a tall slender woman stood at attention in profile wearing a dark blue overcoat with polished gold buttons running from her waist up into her lapels. There was a stiff, high collared tunic that peaked out from beneath the heavy coat and a cloth sash that wrapped around the woman’s thin hips. Matching dark trousers and knee high boots rounded out the rest of the body. The entire ensemble was topped off with the kelpi hat of the French Foreign Legion. She ran a fingertip absently over the subject’s jawline. She could see the uniform in color in her mind—vivid red and blue—and the mischievous green eyes that would turn towards her and wink.

 

A caption scrawled in ink upon a white ribbon just below the portrait read:

 

_Mags, told you I was the pretty one. Kisses Forever, Your Kate._

_Amiens, France. 20 December 1915_

 

Maggie’s thoughts were bordering on melancholy when a knock sounded from the vicinity of the front door and Buster started to bark excitedly, pulling her back into the present. The knock came again until finally Maggie shuffled over in her boxers and fuzzy socks with the dog scurrying good naturedly ahead of her and threw the door open. Bette Kane in a black blazer and pinstripe skirt stood on the other side, leaning against the door jam and looking exasperated.

 

“You know these little visits of ours would be a lot easier if you’d actually let me bring up business during our hangout sessions or—at the very least—show up to the initial meetings we set every quarter instead of putting me off until literally the end of the fiscal year when I don’t have any other choice but to hunt you down.”

 

Maggie shrugged and stepped aside so the other woman could come in, “Where would the fun be in that?”

 

The blonde glared at her and Maggie just winked before she turned and moved into the kitchen, retrieving two ceramic coffee mugs, and filling them with steaming dark liquid. There was an indignant huff, then the sounds of Bette greeting Buster in a high pitched voice like parents used with infants and the slam of the door being kicked shut permeated the air. When Maggie turned back around, Bette was setting her briefcase down at the kitchen island. Immediately she noticed the photo album and recognized the youthful portrait of her legendary great aunt, a larger reproduction of which still hung in a gilded frame in the entrance hall of Kane Manor in Gotham she knew.

 

“Today’s one of those days is it?” Bette asked, her eyes flitting between the portrait and Maggie’s unreadable expression as she blew across the surface of her coffee. “You know, grandmother used to talk about Aunt Kate like she was some great romantic hero. I always wanted to be like her when I was a kid—an untamable badass who everyone either loves or hates—but alas the military isn’t for everyone for a reason. Are you still planning on flying into Gotham on your anniversary?”

 

“Same as I do every year,” Maggie said with a shrug, pushing the second coffee cup across the kitchen island where the blonde scooped it up gratefully, cradling the mug like it was filled with liquid gold.

 

“Under your real name this time?” Bette asked, staring down into her coffee, which appeared to have been made just the way she’d been taking it since she’d passed the bar years ago—two sugars, teaspoon of cream, and hopefully a shot of whiskey somewhere in there, but impromptu visitors couldn’t be choosers, could they?

 

Maggie nodded, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why do you ask?”

 

It was Bette’s turn to shrug back, “Just thought it was good to know in case I needed to get into contact with you or something.”

 

Maggie nodded again silently and looked down at her feet. Buster sat at her side on his haunches, looking up at her with big brown eyes, his fluffy black tail thumping against the hardwood floor.

 

“Is it time for your breakfast?” Maggie asked him, already knowing the answer, but enjoying the exchange anyway.

 

Buster answered her with a high pitched whine and the increased speed of his wagging tail until, were he a helicopter, he might’ve been able to take off. Maggie chuckled at him, and rubbed his head affectionately before padding over to a side cupboard next to the refrigerator and pulling out a sizable metal bowl and Tupperware container filled with dog food. She measured out a cup and put it in the bowl, then set it down out of the way where the Buster—following at her heels—could blissfully devour it in peace.

 

“How have you been, Bette? Haven’t had you breathing down my neck about stocks and funds in a while? There must be a reason for that.” Maggie asked good-naturedly, walking back to her side of the island and her coffee.

 

“Hm, well, one: we saw one another for breakfast yesterday morning and two: I’ve got other things to occupy my time.” Bette agreed after a much needed sip of caffeine minus alcohol. “Believe it or not I do have a life outside of managing your portfolio.”

 

“Oh, really? When was the last time you spent a night with a person instead of a bottle of Vodka and a sleeve of Chips Ahoy?”

 

“Hey, like you can talk! When was the last time you went out on a date?”

 

“A one night stand date or a date-date like with someone special?”

 

“Date-date.”

 

“1946?”

 

“See! See the hypocrisy I’m up against?!”

 

Maggie shook her head, struggling to keep a straight face. “Not even a little bit.”

 

Bette lowered her arms and sputtered in frustration as Maggie chuckled from behind her coffee cup, raising it to her lips again for another swallow of the life giving roasted liquid that was heaven on a caffeine cloud.

 

“Oh, I almost forgot. I don’t know that you deserve it, but I ran into your mail man on the way up this morning, asked if he had anything for Apt. #E96, and without even asking my name he handed me this.”

 

Bette fished a medium sized package wrapped in brown paper from her gigantic purse. It was addressed to Detective Sawyer in styled calligraphy and held together with what looked to be butcher’s twine. Maggie took it in her hand, weighing it. Whatever it was, it looked vaguely rectangular, but rounded at the edges and it had a heft to it that wasn’t entirely heavy per se, but was still solid like lifting a small cat or a small breed puppy one handed.

 

“You’re like a ghost in this place. You honestly need to get to know your mailman better. I asked if he had anything for this apartment number and he just dipped into his pack and handed me this. He just assumed I was you because he’s probably never seen you in actual life.”

 

“I prefer to do everything through intermediaries who don’t need to see me often. It’s easier that way,” Maggie waved her away distractedly, settling the package on the kitchen island between them and their cups of coffee.

 

“Don’t I know it,” Bette muttered under her breath as she lifted her mug to her lips again.

 

Maggie looked down at the package, studying the elaborate cursive handwriting on the paper and knowing that no one was taught how to make fancy loop-de-loops like these anymore. Not like the serpentine letters Maggie spent many of her earliest school days practicing over and over again until they met the school teacher’s approval. Most everything was typed out now and signatures weren’t even required to be in a matchable hand if permission was given for an electronic signature. Whoever sent this to her, had to be aged. Older than Bette at least, but definitely younger than Maggie and that didn’t narrow down the scope too much.  The twine was white cotton, not the straw like brown hemp or coir that was often used in arts and crafts. This twine was thick, but thinner still than the wool yarn used in knitting or crocheting which told her…nothing.

 

“You think you know who sent it?” Bette asked.

 

The sound of her friend’s voice, ricocheted Maggie back into her kitchen with a loudly crunching dog out of her line of sight and Bette looking at her in quiet contemplation.

 

Maggie shook her head, “No. There’s not enough to go on, but if I need to, I’m sure the captain would allow me to bring it down to the forensics lab for some more helpful tests.”

 

Bette raised her eyebrows, “You think it’s really going to come to all that?”

 

“One never knows.” Maggie replied, grimly, “And someone like me can never be too careful.”

 

The room was quiet except for the chewing of kibble. Maggie stared at Bette and Bette met her gaze with a worried one of her own, all the while a presence of absence hanging in the air all around them.

 

Such presences permeated Maggie’s life and her days.  She’d seen and known so many places and things that now only existed in her mental cedar chest of extensive memories of people, buildings, businesses, places, and varied ways of life that had passed her by.

 

In 120 years of being, Maggie had seen…well…everything. For her—but only her—all history of the past century was in living memory and it was so fucking painful! Albert Einstein had said, “time was an illusion,” but even he had been able to shuffle off the mortal coil back into the primordial ether. Maggie couldn’t. Death, dying, decay, and the recycling of it all into something new, something greater, was a part of daily life and yet over a century’s long drudgery, all of it had left Maggie weary and feeling so, so much older than the youthful looks she’d maintained. She’d lived longer than any one human being should’ve and she didn’t want to do that for the rest of eternity. What use was an eternal life if you had no one to grow old with? No one, to share your experiences and your heart with?

 

Maggie could keep up a steady façade for the people who knew her, but not her secret. The people who saw her day in and day out. To them she was adventurous, optimistic, and full of life and perhaps that was who she’d been before decades of loss and forced isolation on the run had shaped her into something else—something that was perhaps not quite human or more than human—a being that had evolved to survive and persist, but not to live or be love. She’d past that a century ago and yet the way Bette looked at her—as if she were the center of the world—this wouldn’t be an easy conversation to have face to face.

 

“You do know that I don’t want to live forever,” Maggie said, finally dragging the elephant into the suddenly serious atmosphere of the room by its tail.

 

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that,” Bette looked down at the muted granite of the kitchen island beneath her arms and hands. Then she met Maggie’s defeated eyes again with a spark of defiant fire powering her green gaze. “But it isn’t about what you want completely is it? It’s about more than you and you know it.”

 

Maggie chewed her lip and looked down at her feet, her mug and the package both sitting long forgotten on the countertop separating them. The telltale well of emotion bubbled up into her chest, but as Maggie had done every day since Kate’s death in 1962, she shoved it back down and replaced it with a calm numbness that was slowly growing to become the only thing she truly felt at all anymore.

 

“It is,” Maggie admitted finally, “I made a promise to your aunt that I’d live my life and look after our son as he lived his. Until our Tim is dead and buried, I’m stuck here, but when he is, I fully intend to claim the peace I’ve been denied for so long.”

 

“Are you kidding me?!” Bette shouted suddenly, pushing away from the island and toppling her barstool accidentally with the sudden motion. “So, that’s it?! You’re just going to what?! Off yourself?!”

 

Maggie’s dark eyes didn’t flash with anger nor did she leap up to defend herself and deny it. She just looked at Bette with sympathy and perhaps that’s what had set Bette off the most. When Maggie finally did open her mouth to speak, Bette immediately cut her off.

 

“No, no, don’t even try to justify this to me right now!” Bette yelled, her eyes misting over with emotion that she was bound and determined to put into her rage. “You have what every human could only dream of—an infinite amount of second chances. The lifetime you’ve lived, the sheer extent of the world you’ve seen, how dare you throw that gift away as if it were nothing special. By doing that, you’re taking a giant shit on all of the people who love you including me! Hell, what about Buster?”

 

The dog padded over at the sound of his name and perked up his head, looking between the two of them and wagging his tail mutedly because—though he didn’t understand the topic being argued over—he knew these humans loved them and usually when they called him it was to love, treats, food, and kisses. Now though, one of them was yelling and the other just looked sad. Buster lowered his head, still wagging his tail, but from between his legs now. He approached Maggie as if unsure and nosed her knee and was rewarded with a reassuring scratch behind the ears.

 

“Are you going to abandon him to a life on the streets like whoever tied him to that dumpster?!”

 

“No, and you of all people, know me better than that.”

 

Maggie met Bette’s gaze again, still sympathetic, but edged now with an impatient defensiveness. It was her life, her decision, but Maggie would never leave Buster to starve and be neglected. She’d made arrangements for him to be cared for and spoiled until the end of his doggy days.

 

“I thought I did. I took it in stride when you asked me to compose a will leaving all of your assets to charity in the likely event Timothy predeceases you. I even humored me when you asked my Shay to do tests and research on you to see if she could reverse your condition, but it seems so much more real now. I don’t—you’ve been there for me since I was a child—even when my mom died and my dad abandoned his kids like we were so much nothing. You raised me. You were like more than a mother to me. You were like my version of Aunt Tilda. You made my life great! What in the hell am I going to do in a world without you in it?!”

 

The last words trembled out in a desperate whisper as Bette finally lost the fight against her emotions. Maggie rounded the island and embraced the blonde as she started to sob. It was true. When Bette’s mother had taken terminally ill with breast cancer and had told Maggie that her husband had abandoned her and the children to their fate, Maggie had taken it upon herself to raise Beth Kane’s two youngest great-grandchildren. Many times she’d thought both Bette and her twin brother, Lucien, would’ve been better off being raised in a more stable family setting. You know, one in which they wouldn’t have had to switch identities, schools, and cities they’d grown used to for new countries, names, languages, and backstories every time the heat on Maggie had grown too intense to remain in one place.

 

Surprisingly though, Bette and Lucien had always elected to stay with Maggie even when she’d offered to make more steady arrangements for them and—throughout adulthood—they’d maintained contact with Maggie no matter where she went or who’s name she’d lived under.

 

When they’d grown old enough, the “trouble twins” as Maggie had nicknamed them, had moved out and gone to University, and restored family ties with their older brother—who hadn’t wanted the responsibility of raising two children  when he was barely nineteen himself—and even with their father. They’d grown into amazing human beings in their own right and Maggie was so proud she’d been there to witness that, but they had to learn the one lesson every human being must inevitably tackle one day.

 

And that lesson was that nothing lasts forever, no matter how much you may want it to.

 

When Bette’s sobs quieted and there were just tears left, Maggie pulled back to look at her. The blonde’s face had a little less makeup on it, her eyes were red-rimmed and ever few seconds she sniffled pitifully in a way that reminded Maggie of a younger Bette recovering her equilibrium after having her knee bandaged when she’d been trying to learn how to ride a bicycle for the first time and had unavoidably wiped out.

 

“I haven’t seen an outburst on this level since I took the training wheels off your bicycle for the first time and insisted you ride full tilt down the field. Guess, you running me over in the process was poetic justice, eh?” Maggie teased.

 

“Yeah,” Bette admitted with a snort and though she was still emotional—the tension in the room had eased slightly with Maggie’s words.

 

“Listen to me, Little B,” Maggie said warmly, gripping Bette’s shoulders gently and holding her at arms’ length. “You already know what it means to lose the person who encapsulates your world and though—it never gets less painful or easier—you’ve learned how to live a good full life despite having to get used to missing someone so dear to you. That’s one of the first and hardest lessons in Humanity 101, but now you must learn another. Nothing is immortal, not even me, not really. I just can’t age because my cells can’t stop reproducing at an optimal rate, but if I were in a bus crash tomorrow, I could die as easily as anyone else on that bus. I’ve just been really lucky up until now. That’s all. And you’re right, I’ve lived an amazing life. I’ve seen more of the world than I even knew existed. I’ve met so many amazing people who continue to teach me something new no matter how old I grow and I’ve had the privilege of knowing you and watching you grow into this badass woman who lives life on her own terms come hell or high water. And I am so, so proud of you, Bette, but you’re going to have to let me go someday. That’s just how life is.”

 

Bette screwed her eyes shut, the last of her tears running down her overheated cheeks. Maggie reached forward and brushed them away with her thumbs before taking Bette’s face between her hands, encouraging the woman to come back to the present. When Bette did, Maggie smiled.

 

“You’ll be fine on your own. You know you will,” Maggie assured her, “Live every day like it’s your last. Look at everything with wonder as if you were seeing it for the first time. Love Shay and let yourself be loved by her in turn and don’t let your imperfections devalue your own self-worth. You are so much more than what you think and your life is going to be every bit as amazing as mine. One day, you’ll look back on it and you’ll understand, but I need to beg you for your indulgence now. I need…to go away…completely, Bette. Life for me now—it’s undercut with constant pain and loneliness—that I can’t get away from and—though I’ve grown used to missing everything that I’ve lost—I can’t escape the feeling that I’ve outlived my natural time and we both know that I have. And one day soon, it will be time for me to go and I will need you to get all of my affairs in order before that day comes.”

 

“I will, I promise.” Bette nodded, seriously.

 

Maggie’s let go of Bette’s face and the blonde raised a hand to rub at her eyes as her breathing steadied. Then there was a low whine as Buster sat down between them and rubbed his muzzle against Bette’s hip in commiseration. Bette let out a choked laugh and lowered her hand to Buster’s head.

 

“I’m alright, Buddy. But thanks”

 

His tail immediately began thumping against the floor again and that seemed to restore normalness to the morning.

 

“Have you been to visit Tim lately?”

 

Maggie took that as her cue to circle back around the island and put their empty coffee mugs in the ‘smart’ dishwasher the contractor had insisted she needed during her upgrades.

 

“Not since last week, but I was planning on checking in on him this afternoon. Why?”

 

“Are you going to tell him about your hot date tonight?”

 

Maggie tried to play innocent, “What date? I don’t have a date.”

 

“Yes, you do.” Bette snickered at the half-assed attempt to lie to her. “With that Alex girl from _Noonan’s_. You know, the brunette who wanted to bite my head off for standing too close to you.”

 

Maggie faltered, feeling her cheeks heat up. “How—she wasn’t—Bette, that wasn’t why—”

 

“I don’t know,” Bette interrupted her with a smirk as she raised her legs, using the barstool next to her as a footrest. “I know enough about dating other women to know that she’d have to like you an awful lot to get that defensive when she asked how we knew one another and then the way you tried to put her at ease with that 100 watt smile and by telling her the truth of all things? That says a lot about both of you and how you feel about each other.”

 

Maggie leaned on the counter, regarding Bette suspiciously. “How did you even know that we were planning on meeting up tonight in the first place?”

 

“I have my ways,” Bette quipped, but sobered when Maggie gave her the look that meant she wasn’t going to play around. “I ran into the sister on the way out. She said she was glad to meet me and that Alex actually talks about you all the time. I just assumed the rest and now you’ve confirmed it for me.”

 

Maggie continued to stare at her with the same intensity and when she finally raised both eyebrows in a, ‘seriously? You’re going to play this card’ expression. Sighing, Bette gave in and admitted there was more to it.

 

“Okay, okay, I also may’ve come back to the counter a couple of times under the rouse of needing more napkins in order to allegedly eavesdrop on you both.”

 

“Allegedly?” Maggie questioned.

 

“Yup,” Bette nodded, not willing to budge any further.

 

Bette was a lawyer and like every Kane Maggie had ever met—she had more sand in her than to just roll over and surrender—even when she was in the wrong and too stubborn to admit it.

 

“Anyway, I took the afternoon off,” Maggie said. “I’m going to use the time to run a few errands and visit Timothy.”

 

“Again I ask, are you going to tell him about your hot date tonight?”

 

Maggie looked at Bette, annoyed, but the vexation was for show and what she saw in Bette’s eyes wasn’t emotional upheaval as there has been during their argument. It also wasn’t the usual mischievous glint she had when she was teasing, instead it was a tiny glimmer of hope. The hope that Maggie might finally start living her life again and find love and be happy. It almost made Maggie feel ashamed to be planning her own eventual death and in that moment she didn’t have it in her to do anything, but smile back warmly.

 

“Maybe,” She conceded with a small shrug, though she knew that likely she wouldn’t.

 

OOOOOOOO

 

_DEO Lab Experimental Observation Log: Entry 12—8.20.2016_

_Adult cells belonging to unidentified Alien Species KCS2152 continues to show varied epigenetic changes, which cycle more rapidly than in the average adult homo sapien. 99% of cells appear to reproduce themselves with no noticeable senescence and little to no change in reproductive life between sample cell lines 1A and 1B over 152 growth cultures. With no Hayflick limit in sight, tests suggest…_

 

Alex paused in the notes she was scribbling. Suggest what?

 

She’d only been working with a small team on culturing the adult extraterrestrial cells of the unknown species for a few months, but based on their tests and observations so far, it appeared as if…this species of alien was biologically immortal. That in and of itself wasn’t extraordinary. Many alien species whose technological advances far surpassed those of humans had figured out ways around aging and disease. For example, Green and White Martians both were biologically immortal to an extent, their bodies reproducing cells at the same rate, mostly without any noticeable change until they’d already lived a number of centuries. Kryptonian technology had advanced to a point that all diseases had been eradicated and the aging process had been slowed, but they weren’t “immortal”—for lack of a better word—in the same sense, they just lived longer than most humans.

 

This species appeared to be though.

 

The idea of biological “immortality”—wherein the cells of a being reproduce at the same rate without damage or change so a species lives a long natural life without aging until that life was cut down by disease or ended by death of an unnatural means such as murder—had always intrigued Alex. As a child, she’d been allowed a small aquarium of fish for pets. As one of her first real attempts at experimentation, her five year old self had kept a research journal documenting the lifespans of her fish and how they were effected in a controlled environment by different brands of fish food being introduced into their diets. After six months, she’d given up on the experiment though because—regardless of which brand of food she bought—aquarium fish had a relatively short lifespan compared to humans anyway no matter which species was being tested.

 

Still, she’d pursued any sort of material she could find on the study of epigenetics, genetics, microbiology, etc. in her parents’ scientific journal collections which referenced the process of aging, the life cycle of a human cell, gene expression, DNA, etc. until she’d become convinced that halting or reversing the biological aging process was possible and she’d dreamed ever since of what that sort of dream would manifest itself as in humans. Having J’onn and Kara in her life had helped mold that hypothesis from simple theory into something that approached parallel practice—not to say she could suddenly make humans more long lived, but now Alex could compare other similar beings with longer lifespans to the improvements which human biologists aspired to achieve.

 

_…suggest the possibility of “biological immortality” in Alien Species KCS2152. More test cultures needed to procure positive or negative conclusive results._

Alex closed her log book and set down the pen beside it with a click that echoed through the quiet lab, deserted by all save her at this still early hour.

 

Many of the lab’s researchers had the week before Labor Day off and were spending the time through the holiday with their families making up for all of the late summer evenings and early mornings their dedication to their jobs had robbed from their families. Alex—who preferred to be able to work alone on her own projects—usually took the time around holidays to refamiliarize herself with the research lab that she wasn’t able to spend much time in when she was on active duty and she usually stayed there until Kara dragged her back to unavoidable revelry, tense family meals, and the alcohol that helped Alex get through it all.

 

She ran a hand through her hair exhaustedly, noting that she would have to get it trimmed up before she took her bike out on its next desert ride. Alex leaned back in her laboratory chair and let out a sigh. When was the last time she took her Ducati for a ride? Alex couldn’t even remember the day. She didn’t often do more for herself than was necessary for survival. She paid her bills, bought food and alcohol, went to sleep at night, and got up in the morning to go to work. That was enough—or at least Alex had convinced herself that it was.

 

Since she and Kara had become close in High School, Alex had stopped thinking about herself solely as a, “I”, but as the lesser part of a, “we.” She’d put whatever childish dreams she’d once nurtured aside and did everything she’d been expected to do at 100%. She’d even sacrificed her self-loathing alcohol lubricated nights dancing at clubs until she was too drunk to drive for a job where she could channel that self-loathing into protecting her sister against the wider world. Anything, she’d ever wanted from then on had been pushed back down deep into her subconscious and forgotten.

 

Apparently, she’d hidden her wants and desires so well that not even Kara had noticed. Her little sister had simply rationalized it away, by saying to herself, “That’s Alex for you.” Alex hadn’t become aware of that until after Myriad, after they’d both almost died saving the world and each other. Kara had been ashamed of it, but Alex hadn’t held it against her. How could she? Kara had been right. That was how Alex _was._ It only occurred to Alex then that she’d ignored her own thoughts, desires, emotions, and any greater sense of self-reflection for so long that she didn’t even know what those things were anymore.

 

Now, whenever Alex felt a flash of something, it was instinctively buried before she could determine what it even was and this empty neutral-ness took its place automatically, dictating her reactions and facilitating her denials. She felt and knew that her life wasn’t important—not for herself, not without Kara. She’d poured everything into their friendship and had fought for her for so long that she knew Kara’s habits better than own. She knew what Kara needed: security, a sense of purpose, a job that made her feel like she was contributing to the world not just as Supergirl, but as her mild mannered alter-ego Kara Danvers before she could be happy.

 

But what was it Alex needed? What was it that would make Alex happy?

 

Alex loved her job, but there was a hollowness to what she did day to day now, this feeling that there was a lack of wonder, a lack of…anything really. She went through most of her days on autopilot until some Big Bad came to the city and threatened Kara, then she knew what she was doing and that too came to her on an instinctual level, not a conscious one. Could she—not only in theory, but in practice—continue to live like this? Would this be her life until she was too old to do roundhouse kicks or lift whatever DEO standard issue weapon would be adopted in the future?

 

Just then, her phone buzzed against the top of her desk across the room, and the distinctive rendition of “Mr. Brightside” came blasting out of the tiny device. Alex grinned and all but skipped over to the desk, sliding the last few steps of the way with more grace than a professional baseball player. She picked up the phone and—seeing the now familiar name on the screen and the short message beneath it—felt the smile on her face warm her entire being.

 

Maggie:                                _Morning Danvers. Got any plans for this evening?_

 

Alex raised her eyebrows and chuckled at that. Either Maggie had the flighty memory of a Goldfish or she was play with her. Well, Alex could play back.

 

Alex:                      _You know, I think I might’ve? Let me check my calendar…Nope I’m all yours._

 

Alex hit the send button with her thumb and immediately regretted it, realizing that her comment could be taken two different ways. Couldn’t it? Alex looked back down at the screen just as the little green checkmark popped up below her message that showed it had been sent and seen.

 

 _Crap, crap, crap!_ Alex mentally berated herself, panicking internally. Every nerve in her body was screaming at her to do something—anything—in the name of self-preservation. Then the brake was pulled down and the well-oiled gears of Alex’s mind came to a sudden halt.

 

Wait, why did Alex care that what she said could be taken two different ways? Maggie was a cool level headed woman. She would know how Alex had meant it. Wouldn’t she? It wasn’t like one oddly worded text would destroy the prospect of their burgeoning friendship. And anyway, Maggie was a lesbian. If she did take Alex’s comment the wrong way, she’d probably understand that Alex had meant it in a platonic way, you know, through experience, right? Or was she way overthinking everything right now? Why did she even care so much?

 

 _Because you want her to like you, idiot,_ Alex’s brain supplied unhelpfully.

 

Just as Alex had decided to compose a not too rambling explanation for her choice of words just in case, three little grey dots appeared dancing in a line below her last reply, indicating that Maggie was typing.

 

Alex just stood there, staring at the screen. Then those three little dots disappeared from view with no accompanying message after it and Alex almost had a heart attack. It was a small thing that was usually just frustrating when it happened when she and Kara were messaging back and forth, but this was different. Then it happened again. The three dancing dots came back, danced like the rotating colors of a traffic light for what felt like an eternity, and then disappeared into nothingness again!

 

“God fucking dammit!” Alex cursed.

 

In a move of pure exasperation, Alex tossed the offending object back down on the desk. She needed to stop obsessing and get her mental and emotional equilibrium back before the work day started up properly and she had to face whatever hell was coming their way while pretending that everything was fine. Alex checked her watch.

 

6:39 A.M.

 

Not so early anymore, apparently, but Alex still had time to go down to one of the training rooms and give one of the punching bags a good beat down. No sooner had Alex stood when the chorus of “Mr. Brightside” started up again. Alex’s hand reached for the phone so fast that it jumped out of her hands like a fish and bounced ineffectively off the knuckles of one hand, then glancing off of the grasping fingers of the other before finally Alex caught the phone in her grasp and held it up to her face.

 

 Maggie:               _That’s the spirit, Danvers. How about I pick you up around 7pm?_

Alex let out a relaxing breath, finally letting the tension ease out of her muscles. Then the agent’s thumbs immediately went to work, firing off a rapid response.

 

Alex:                      _Seven’s good. May I ask where we’re going?_

 

Maggie:                               _You can definitely ask. ;)_

 

Alex:                      _………..And???_    

 

Maggie:                                _And…it’s a surprise. Think of it as an adventure, Danvers ;)_

 

Alex:                      _Alright, I’ll bite. What’s the dress code?_

Maggie:                _Wear something casual, but two caveats: 1) wear long pants of some type, and 2) wear boots you can hike in._

 

Alex raised her eyebrows at the phone screen.

 

Alex:                      _Um…okay?_ _I’m just brimming with confidence now about…this lumberjack convention we’re apparently going to?_

Maggie:                _…..Ha, you wish we were going to a lumberjack convention! I have all the best button ups for it. ;) No really, though, it’s going to be fun—not the lumberjack convention, I don’t even think there’s one in town—but I mean the date, this date of ours is going to be epic.._

 

Alex felt her face heat up. Was this a date? Was it okay that this was a date? Maggie was pretty amazing. She just had this quality about her. In high school, it would’ve been described as “the cool factor,” but in the world of grudging and regressive adulthood, it simply became this indescribable “thing” that someone had. Sometimes the phrase, “they have it all together,” was used, but all of those descriptors were just too…common for Maggie. She was someone who defied description. She was extraordinary and Alex didn’t know why, but she wasn’t at all bothered by the thought of going on a date with her.

 

True, she’d gone into this with just an undeniable need to be closer to Maggie and little understanding of what that need might mean, but Alex found that she didn’t care. She’d never really fit just into one box—she didn’t have a dating life or even a social life—but that didn’t mean anything about her, not really. Alex could run 3 miles at full tilt in 25 minutes flat. She could torture someone with an index finger until they spilled every secret they knew and she could also grow alien stem cells.

 

Could your average twenty-something fiancée of another hot twenty something do that? No. Well…maybe, but generally the answer would be no.

 

Alex Danvers was an accomplished, attractive, brilliant woman and if she wanted to go on a date with another woman because that woman was amazing and made her feel alive for the first time in years…well that was her own business, no one else’s.

 

Alex:                      _I can’t wait._

 

Maggie:                                _Till 7, Danvers. :)_

 

“Someone’s in a good mood.”

Alex looked up from her phone screen to see Kara standing three feet in front of her, still in her reporter get up and glasses, smiling because Alex was smiling.

 

“What?” Alex asked, innocently, setting her phone back on her desk face down.

 

“Wow, you just…you just look really happy is all. What’s got you all excited?”

 

“I’m going out with a friend tonight.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Um, you remember Maggie, right?”

 

“The detective we ran into at _Noonan’s_ the other day?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“What about her?”

 

“Um…we…I mean her and I are going to hang out tonight.”

 

“That’s awesome, Alex! Good for you.”

 

“Um, thanks?”

 

“So whatcha doing?”

 

Alex gestured over to the incubator where cell cultures were growing, “Oh, you know, just…research and busy work.”

 

“No, I didn’t mean right now,” Kara corrected, watching as realization dawned and another smile brightened her sister’s expression. “I meant tonight, with Maggie?”

 

“Uh,” Alex paused.

 

Was it a good idea to tell your only sibling and closest friend that you were going to an undisclosed location with a woman you’d only met two or three times and didn’t really know? Was it a good idea to even do that in the first place? Alex knew what her answer would be if it were Kara going out with Maggie. Kara may be bulletproof, but she was still Alex’s baby sister and—come Hell or high water—Alex would always stand in between her and danger. But Maggie…wasn’t dangerous. Alex felt it, she knew it almost instinctually like she knew when something wasn’t right. Still, that wouldn’t be enough to stop Kara from worrying for her.

 

Alex scratched her head and smiled sheepishly, “Um, I don’t really know, actually, isn’t that crazy?”

 

“Uh, you don’t know where you’re going with a woman you hardly know?” Kara asked skeptically, folding her arms over her chest and looking Alex up and down. “Who are you and what have you done with my overly careful big sister?”

 

“Nothing!” Alex defended. “I’m just trying something new you know? Being impulsive, seizing the day?”

 

Alex knew her smile looked terribly forced right now, but she didn’t feel like she understood her dynamic with Maggie enough to talk about it yet and she wasn’t sure what she’d say even if she could. Alex had always talked with Kara about Kara’s love life and whenever her failed dates were mentioned, she’d shrug off Kara’s oversight and reassure her sister she was fine.

 

But Maggie? Maggie was—Maggie and she was different for her—and Alex wasn’t entirely sure what that meant or even how to put what the tiny woman made her feel in two/three meetings into coherent sentences.

 

“Are you feeling alright? Maybe you should lay down.” Kara asked, suddenly standing right in front of Alex and feeling her forehead. “I think I’m going to go get J’onn.”

 

Alex slapped Kara’s intrusive hands away.

 

“Hey!” Kara pouted, rubbing her wrist even though they both knew that there was no way in hell Alex would ever be able to hurt her physically. “I’m just trying to look out for you.”

 

Alex lunged forward and clasped Kara in a brief hug, then pulled back, holding the younger girl by her shoulders and meeting her eyes.

 

“I know you are, Kara and I appreciate it, but I’m really fine okay?” Alex reassured her with a gentle squeeze to Kara’s shoulders.

 

Kara nodded, but she still looked unconvinced.

 

“BRB,” Kara said. Then she flashed away and was back standing in front of Alex in the blink of an eye. “Take this.”

 

She held out an overly large digitally faced wrist watch to Alex.

 

“A signal watch? Really?” Alex deadpanned, taking it in her hand. “I doubt Maggie’s going to turn out to secretly be an axe murderer, Kara.”

 

“You don’t know!” Kara argued, stubbornly. “And you are always and forever telling me that, ‘it’s better to be safe than sorry.’ Wear it, please? Then you can contact me if you need me and I won’t be so worried.”

 

Alex hesitated for a moment, turning the watch over and over again in her palm. It looked like a standard smartwatch. Leather wristband and blank black screen face. The only difference was a tiny silver button on the right side, which would easily go unnoticed by most people. Kara looked at her with puppy dog eyes, lower lip jutting out into an expression Alex had never been able to refuse.

 

Alex sighed in defeat, “Alright, I’ll wear it, but I really don’t think I’ll need it.”

 

“Yay!” Kara squeaked, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Have a great time tonight!”

 

“Wait,” Alex said, reaching for Kara’s arm as she started to float away. “Where are you going?”

 

“To my human job. CATCO worldwide reporter Kara Danvers reporting for duty!” Kara said, mock saluting Alex. “Talk to you later.”

Then Kara was gone and Alex found herself staring at the watch in her hands again wondering how she was going to get through her evening with Maggie without making a fool of herself then wondering when in the hell Kara had found the time between her two lives to have signal watches mass produced.

 

OOOOOOOO

 

_Gotham City—August 1915_

 

As far as criminal trials went, the third session in the case of The People of Gotham County v. Kurt Robbins and Wilmer Watkins had certainly opened with a show stopping performance—literally.

 

The trial was adjourned early that day and—though the case had only re-adjourned two days earlier from the opening statements—the next court session was set for a week away. If the intent was to be for the jury and reporters in that room to forget Kate Spencer’s speech, Maggie didn’t think that would be possible. She’d not been in Addams Square that day or in the park nearby—though it had been a Saturday and many families were out enjoying the sunshine by playing badminton, tossing horseshoes, and picnicking—but living and working  near the East End, it was impossible for Maggie not to have been called to the scene.

 

The fire was under control by then and all that was left was a charred out tower, a horrified mob of on-looking Gothammites being kept back by uniformed officers, and the bodies of the poor women and men—some of them still smoking—that the police were picking up and setting side by side in the square with reverence. Though the CEOs were currently on the line for manslaughter—there hadn’t been anything for a homicide detective to do on the case at the time—yet Maggie and Bartlett had volunteered to sub in for some of the patrol officers when they grew too green or pale to be able to carry on with their gruesome tasks.

 

Everything Kate Spencer had said had been true and—though Maggie had been there that day—she hadn’t known _this_ was the trial Toby had been slated to attend and she’d not been ready for the emotional repercussions being faced with the losses of that day would bring back. So, Maggie had descended the stairs on McCourt Street, knocked on a locked wooden door, and entered _Mollie’s_ —the only bar in the city that catered to open lesbians and gay men and everyone in between. The fact that it was underground and had two ex-soldiers as door guards was just an added bonus that had come in handy more than once when one kid or another had been fleeing their tormentors and been welcomed in by the stalwart no-bullshit Mollie Malone.

 

Mollie was a middle aged woman who’d been born in Cookstown, County Tyrone, Ireland, could joke about surviving the coffin ships over the Atlantic, and liked to say fondly that she took in strays of all creeds and that the only things Irish about her place were the Whiskey, a framed portrait of Hugh O’Neill over the bar, and herself. But for all her good-heartedness, if you caused trouble in her bar for any reason, Mollie would throw you out on the pavement herself and you’d never be allowed back in. Aside from the discipline, _Mollie’s_ was indistinguishable on the inside from any other saloon in Gotham open exclusively to men, only it was open to the persecuted, the oppressed, and those without friends or families who then made a citywide family of their own—one that transcended language, cultural identity, skin color, and sexuality.

 

“Aunt Mollie,” as she was known, was the beloved figurehead of that hangdog community and—like other saloon keepers in the city—Mollie would do things for her patrons that weren’t on the drink menu such as collect their mail for them if there was a patron who didn’t feel particularly safe being themselves in their own home and for those who—like Maggie—had been disowned by their families, she offered free beds and hot meals in her lover’s boarding house to all who needed them in exchange for a few hours of voluntary work at the bar or the boarding house to pay the fare.

 

To those who depended upon her, Mollie was a Saint. To those who’d been thrown on their keisters by her for whatever reason, she was the living incarnation of the shillelagh-hugging immigrant Devil caricaturized in urban newspapers. To Maggie, she was simply Mollie and Mollie had adopted Maggie as easily as any of her other wayward charges. When Maggie had started to feel comfortable enough, she’d told Mollie that her great-grandfather—Ignatius—has been born in County Tipperary before he’d been brought by his parents to America to escape the Great Hunger. After a few unanswered questions and short answers, Mollie must’ve figured that Maggie might not have the best relationship with her family and had stopped using her surname altogether—calling her instead just by the Irish variant of her name “Máiréad,” or “Tipp,” or “The Fine Lady of Tipperary,” whenever Mollie was in particularly fine fettle.

 

It made Maggie feel oddly special—to have a nickname bestowed by someone who wasn’t trying to insult her or create a semi-fictional hero out of her for a newspaper headline—but by someone who regarded her fondly and respectfully like Maggie’s Aunt Tilda used to. They weren’t actually that different from one another—Tilda hadn’t been Irish, true, and Mollie was a bit more buxom—but the way both of them had gone out of their way to accept Maggie for who and what she was remained the same and Maggie was grateful for them both.

 

Tonight though, all Maggie wanted to do was forget everything she’d heard and been through that day and she’d found that the only way to do that in Gotham city which wasn’t illegal was with a good single malt bottle of Scotch so she’d staked out her usual seat at the bar. Her rubber soled shoes immediately found purchase on the brass foot rail, allowing Maggie to hoist herself up into a chair that was just a little too tall for her to conquer herself without becoming the brunt of someone else’s laughter. Once she was comfortably settled, she leaned her elbows against the bar’s polished oak surface and cradled her face in her hands, allowing the light from the bright—if not sporadically placed—electric ceiling bulbs to be kept at bay from aggravating what was sure to be another painful headache brewing in Maggie’s head.

 

“Has that bloody blonde banshee done your head in again?”

 

Maggie chuckled, immediately feeling the tightness in her chest ease and the ghastly specters of corpses—most of them bleeding out of the mouth or ears or burned too much to be identified—gave way at the sound of the slightly annoyed yet concerned raspy accented voice. Maggie pulled her head out of her hands, flinching at the knot of pain that had begun to throb between her eyes as the brightness of the lights came back into view.

 

“Toby did help to facilitate the shit show of a day I’ve had, but believe it or not, she wasn’t the cause of it this time,” Maggie replied numbly, nodding gratefully as a highball glass with a double shot of Scotch was slid towards her without preamble.

 

“I’ve known that girl was trouble since the day she first set foot in my place. I thought about driving her off when she caused a squabble between two previously well behaved girls of mine, but my Kiki stopped me before I could throw her out on her arse. Now, I wish to Christ she hadn’t. Just look at the state of you.”

 

Maggie looked down at her rumpled three piece suit, noting the few buttons that’d popped free of their holes at some point, the paleness of her reflection in the mirror-like shine of the oak, and the slight shaking of her hands as they tried to pull the Scotch glass closer without spilling it. Suddenly, Maggie regretted taking the B train into the Bowery instead of heading home to her own apartment. The ache in her head doubled and felt like someone was trying to chop her skull up for firewood. Maggie was also reminded by her dry throat that she hadn’t drank much during the day aside from coffee and her empty stomach suddenly started to go into rebellion.

 

“ _Ma Chérie, reviens nous_.”

 

Maggie blinked, but looked back up. Mollie stood there staring at her with drawn up eyebrows while Kiki de Montmartre—as Mollie’s lover, a former artist’s model and nightclub singer in Paris preferred to be known—reached forward and brushed a soft pale hand across Maggie’s cheek in concern. Somehow she’d appeared from nowhere without Maggie noticing and that didn’t speak well to her detective skills right now.

 

“ _Es tu malade_ , Marguerite? Feel her forehead, _Ma beauté_. She is not well.”

 

Mollie reached a hand out to touch Maggie’s forehead while Kiki kept her palm against Maggie’s cheek so she couldn’t shy away from the touch. To be honest, Maggie wasn’t feeling quite well. She’d woken up with aches in muscles all over her body that she’d forgotten existed. She’d been tired for days and hadn’t eaten many solid meals, but hadn’t thought it anything out of the ordinary.  When she was working, she often exchanged her appetite for the dog-with-a-bone mentality that allowed her to excel at what she did and working long traumatic hours as she did—Maggie didn’t always sleep the greatest. During the trial though, Maggie had noticed a consistent throbbing in her side, but she’d attributed it to the fact that the courtroom was overly warm and that she’d been squeezed in between Toby and the armrest at the end of their row.

 

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! You’re hot enough to scald a kettle,” Mollie exclaimed, stepping back from her.

 

In another moment, the people chatting on either side of Maggie parted and Mollie was suddenly pulling her down from the stool into an awkward embrace.

 

“Get your hat, you’re coming with me.”

 

Maggie didn’t argue and allowed herself to be shifted through clumps of people and through doors until they arrived in the kitchen where Maggie was pushed into a steel chair against the brick wall. A girl with oddly cropped black hair paused in her washing of dishes when she saw Maggie, but went back to her task as Mollie scuttled out of the room muttering to herself. Sweat was dripping down from Maggie’s hairline and she could feel it slowly drenching the back of her neck and soaking into her paper collar.

 

Desperate for some sort of relief, she leaned her aching head back against the cool wall behind her and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the girl who’d been washing the dishes was standing wordlessly in front of her with a tin cup of something. Maggie cleared her throat to ask what the girl needed, but before she could speak the cool cup was placed between her hands and the girl was wiping her hands on her apron before returning to the remaining dirty dishes and the sink of soapy water.

 

Maggie lifted the cup to her lips, her arms shaking with the effort and let out a pleased moan when the cold water hit the back of her throat. The water, though tasting faintly of metal, was the best thing she’d tasted all day and Maggie found herself greedily downing every drop in the cup. Then she settled her head back against the bricks and she must’ve drifted off because when she came to again, a woman in a thin white coat was prying open her eyes one by one and shaking her head.

 

“It’s typhoid,” the brunette said, shaking her head. “Her symptoms are milder than most cases I’ve seen, but it’s typhoid fever all the same.”

 

There was a slight gasp as Kiki—who was standing a few feet away—took a further step back and covered her mouth with her hands. Mollie stood across from her, her arms crossed over her chest as she shook her head.

 

“What have you gotten yourself into now, kid?” Mollie muttered.

 

“She needs a hospital,” Leslie said, nodding to herself and then she stood. “I can have her dropped off at Gotham General, then I’ll have to make a call. Every case of Typhoid has to be reported to the Health Department so they can look into the cause to prevent a potential outbreak.”

 

Kiki stepped up to her, wringing her hands out in front of her.“Oui, we will help you get her settled into your auto. Is it in the back, ye—”

 

“Like Hell we will!” Mollie fumed. She settled her hands on her hips and marched into Dr. Thompkins’ personal space until the woman retreated a step. “I know this girl. She’s a good egg and there’s no way I’m letting her be carted off to some hospital. Those places are ‘palaces of death,’ they are. My half-brother Andy took ill a year ago. Some fever it ‘twas. His wife took him into Gotham General and the doctors there gave him quinine and pills of white mercury enough that all of his hair and teeth fell out. Imagine it: a thirty year old grown man having to gum down oat mash like a gran of three generations? It was that bad. And they never found the cause of his fever either, but it ‘twas the pills and the doctors that killed him in the end. Of that much I’m sure. Mark my words, if you take that girl away on a stretcher you’ll be bringing her out again in a coffin and she deserves a better chance at life than that. No, she stays here. We’ll put her up in the boarding house for the time being and take care of her in shifts.”

 

Leslie Thompkins opened her mouth to defend the hospital system, but Mollie—standing in front of her as solid as one of the walls that held up her bar—continued to stare the good doctor down until she lost her nerve.

 

“You’ll have to wash your hands with carbolic soap and scrub every surface in this place with carbolic acid or bleach to stop the spread of germs.”

 

Mollie wiped her hands on her apron, “It’s near closing time anyway, won’t hurt our pocketbooks to close this place early. Cassie, love, go ring the closing bell would you? I’ll show our esteemed patrons out.”

 

Cassie did as she was told and Mollie untied her apron, throwing it in the corner by the oven and then turned back around to face Dr. Thompkins, “You lay one finger on that bonny wee girl over there and I’ll give you a proper hiding, the likes of which you’ve never had in your life, understand?”

 

Mollie didn’t wait for the doctor’s answer, but let her words linger in the air around them like an acrid smell as she left the kitchen just as the overloud ringing of a bell pierced Maggie’s consciousness, making her grit her teeth together. When the sound stopped, Maggie felt all of her strength leave her body. She sagged against the steel chair she was sitting in and once again closed her eyes. After that, the world around her faded in and out of focus. At one moment, she heard Dr. Thompkins’ polite voice telling someone to give her bicarbonate of soda and revert to ice baths if her fever didn’t go down. Then the world was moving and chaotic and every door, every, wall, every decoration looked foreign to Maggie as it blurred by. Then there was pain and shouting and cursing and crying as she heaved the non-existent contents of her stomach into a bucket.

 

Minutes bled into hours and hours bled into days of confused misery and limited consciousness, until one morning Maggie awoke to sweat drenched sheets, rays of sunlight warming her face, and the curious green eyes of an attractive stranger leaning over her. She was tall and lean with a flapper’s bob of red hair ringing her head and a pleasing mouth slowly drawing up into a cautious smile.

 

“You’re awake,” the stranger said warmly, leaning away from Maggie and dropping down into a chair by the bed. “I’d thought we’d lost you. You know, Mollie claims she loves all of her little doves the same, but when your fever got so high we had to drop you into a tub of ice, she seemed really distraught that she might lose you or at least distraught enough to threaten whatever demons were trying to steal away your immortal soul. I don’t know much about Christian theology, but I’d bet it’d be angels coming for you, not demons.”

 

Maggie opened her mouth, but a pained groan came out instead of coherent words. Suddenly, there was pressure behind her head as it was lifted up slightly and a cup of cool water touched Maggie’s lips. She drank it like a woman dying of thirst and nodded for more when the redhead asked. When she was sufficiently hydrated, Maggie leaned back against her pillows and regarded the woman who’d reclaimed her seat and was looking at Maggie with a roguish smile that was probably meant to be charming, but given their circumstances, it seemed ridiculous.

 

“Who are you and wh—what are you doing at my sickbed?”

 

“Ah, my name’s Kate. I’m one of Mollie’s new strays. My sister and I were in the bar a couple of nights ago and Mollie almost threw us out. She mistook us for bullies because we’d played a prank on a friend and caused a stir, but when our friend vouched for our good character, she let us stay, but she gave us, um, what did she call it? Penance? That we had to do. Anyway, it’s to absolve us of our sins towards her apparently. Beth’s got kitchen duty today and, well, I got you.”

 

“Kindness enforced by punishment, what a novel approach to patient care,” Maggie muttered, the sarcasm evident in her voice as she tried to push herself further up into a sitting position against the pillows.

 

“Whoa, easy there, let me help you.”

 

Before Maggie could retort that she had everything under control—even though every muscle in her arms and shoulders was straining with effort to lift the rest of her body—the red head stood from her chair again, slunk an arm between the damp sheets and her shoulders, while another hand grasped the back on one of Maggie’s knees firmly and lifted. The movement was slight and quick and before she knew it, Maggie was propped against the pillows and headboard behind her. The arm behind her shoulders was trapped beneath Maggie’s weight, which was causing Kate to lean awkwardly over her, their faces almost close enough to touch and eyes staring more deeply into one another’s souls than two strangers ever should.

 

It only lasted for a moment though and ended when the trapped arm was hastily reclaimed and the hand attached to it ran through the short bob of red hair and Kate exhaled, reseating herself this time on the side of the twin bed Maggie was in instead of the chair.

 

“So, are you truly feeling better or are you putting on a brave face until I leave the room? Come on, you can tell me, I won’t rat you out. Promise. Cross my heart.” Kate said with a wink, leaning her weight on her forearms which were in turn resting on her trousered knees.

 

“Something tells me your heart’s been crossed so many times the chalk doesn’t even stay on its mark anymore,” Maggie managed playfully, though every part of her was weighed down by bone deep exhaustion, she found herself wanting to match this attractive woman’s easy going nature.

 

Kate just raised her eyebrows suggestively and then looked down in a bashful way that seemed foreign to her features and it was that foreign sense of momentary insecurity which caused a geyser of warmth to bubble up in Maggie’s chest. It surprised her—this depth of feeling for a woman whose last name Maggie didn’t even know, but in a way the sincere surge of emotion was welcome. It’d been so long since she’d felt the pure and simple sentiments that colored the beginnings of love and Maggie found herself just enjoying the moment without further expectation.

 

“So, you’re a detective?”

 

“And you know this how?”

 

“I read the papers. Those Ponzi illustrations don’t do you justice by the way. You’re way more beautiful in person than any ink etching could make you look.”

 

Maggie snorted in amusement and raised her eyebrows at Kate.

 

“Really? I’ve been trussed up in these sheets for God knows how many days sweating, vomiting, and probably doing worse things every day. Yeah, I’m sure I look absolutely fucking stunning—a real Venus de Milo in action.”

 

They both laughed heartily and when the humor had left them, their smiles remained. Then their eyes met and held.

 

“Something like that,” the redhead admitted, her green eyes looking at Maggie as if she could see into her soul.

 

“Still,” Maggie replied, blushing a bit. “I’m sorry you were put on invalid duty. I know it can’t be fun.”

 

“Actually,” Kate said, her face turning such a deep red that it almost matched her hair. “I’ve found that it can be…if it’s with you.”

 

They both chuckled at themselves, but it wasn’t in self-depreciation or embarrassment, it was in acceptance of this warm and effortless connection they had after only five minutes of knowing one another.

 

Maggie raised her eyebrows, a huge, dimpled smile splitting her face. “You really can’t help yourself can you?”

 

“No,” Kate laughed genuinely, scrubbing a demurring hand over her face. “No, I really can’t.”

 

OOOOOOOO

 

_National City—August 2016_

Maggie Sawyer hated nursing homes. The halls were bright like a hospital, but usually painted in some ridiculous pastel color that’s supposed to make the place seem more like a home and less like a medical prison. The air always smelled like a mixture of antiseptic, baby powder, and decay and then there were the residents themselves. People who’d been dropped off by their children when they became too much of a burden to care for. The ones who could, received visitors and moved freely from room to room.

 

Those who were bedridden, stared at their TVs or lay curled in on themselves watching others enjoy the mobility they no longer could, and then there were the people who couldn’t remember who or where they were. Their voices repeatedly calling out feebly, “Help me, help me, help me…” was enough to crush anyone’s soul and stomp on their heart for good measure. The one perk of biological immortality was—because her cells never degraded—Maggie would never waste away mentally or physically and for that she was eternally grateful.

 

Maggie hated nursing homes, but she visited the National City Jewish Home for Seniors at least once a week when she could. Every two weeks when she couldn’t. It was the same every time. She was buzzed in through the main doors, smiled at the receptionists, and signed in. Occasionally, she would pay the monthly bill, but then she made her way down the main corridor towards Room 3A. The name plate hanging from a piece of artsy twine—decorated with glitter, colored paints, or tied with rainbow ribbons probably by the local girl scout troop Maggie surmised—read “Timothy J. Kane.”  She raised a hand to knock on the doorframe, but before she could, she heard a familiar raspy voice from the opposite direction in the main corridor she’d entered from.

 

“Moms!”

 

Maggie turned around on her heel towards the old man in the wheel chair being pushed towards her. He’d raised both of his wrinkly arms in the air and instead of his usual single weave cardigans, he was wearing a hospital gown with a thin pink blanket thrown over his legs. As the orderly pushed him closer, he pointed at Maggie and looked back over his shoulder at the man.

 

“That’s my mom,” He said proudly, beaming up at the man guiding his wheel chair.

 

“Oh, yeah, sure,” the orderly humored him.

 

“No, seriously, kid. I know she doesn’t look it, but she’s over a hundred years old and she’s my mother.”

 

When they were a few feet away from the room, the orderly stopped to open the simple wood door and as he was walking back to the wheelchair, he gave Maggie what was meant to be a pitiful and yet somewhat conspiratorial smile and a wink that made Maggie’s skin crawl.

 

“Eh, don’t you be making heart eyes at her, boy!” Tim scolded, his wispy voice gaining some of the youthful vitality of his previous life. “I’ll give you such a walloping. I’m not too old to knock you on your ass, you know young fella.”

 

Maggie shoved her hands into her pockets and didn’t even both to try hiding her proud smile as her defiantly ranting Timothy was wheeled into his room. Then she quietly filed in behind them. The orderly helped the older man into an overstuffed red chair, draping the thin pink blanket over his legs. Maggie scowled and reached into a drawer to pull out a button down blue sweater that she tucked around Tim’s shoulders.

 

“He’s all yours,” the orderly breathed as he slunk past her.

 

Tim watched him go, glowering at his back the whole time. Once the young man was gone, he turned towards Maggie, “That bastard didn’t get fresh with you did he?”

 

Maggie chuckled and moved closer. She stopped in front of Tim, reaching out to lift his chin gently so she could look into his grey eyes, trying to reconcile the image of the little scrap of a boy she’d met in a Gotham orphanage what felt like a lifetime ago with this wrinkled old timer.

 

“He didn’t. Don’t worry about me, buddy,” Maggie reassured him, leaning over to lay an affectionate kiss on his forehead. Then she pulled a simple wooden chair up beside Tim’s lift chair and—after taking a seat—reached out to clasp his hand between both of hers. “Besides, you don’t have to fight my battles for me, Timothy. I appreciate it, but I can look after myself.”

 

“I know that, but still. Never hurts to have someone in your corner especially someone who loves you. Remember, mother used to say that all of the time?”

 

“I remember,” Maggie nodded, briefly seeing a flash of Kate’s smiling face in her mind’s eye before she shook it away..

 

“He’s a shyster anyhow,” Tim raised his free hand to wave towards the door the orderly had disappeared through. “You know, these people who work in here, they think I’m crazy when I tell them who you are, but when I don’t recognize you or Hetty or the boys, they don’t bat an eyelash at that. It’s a strange thing, to be told you’re losing what’s left of your marbles when you’re telling the truth and treated like everything’s on the level when you can’t tell which way is up. I tell you, if Leo and his wife hadn’t convinced Hetty that I needed to move in here, I wouldn’t have signed my life away like I did. I hate this fucking place.”

 

“Me too.” Maggie nodded, pursing her lips together in sympathy, “I still wish you’d take me up on my offer and come live with me, Timmy.”

 

“I’d just be a burden on you,” Tim said, looking sadly up at her from beneath his bushy grey eyebrows. “I already am to my kids and their kids. They don’t say it, but then again they don’t have to if I’m shut up in here by myself, do they?” 

 

Maggie squeezed his hand in hers and tried to keep the emotion out of her voice as her heart broke for her son all over again, “No, you wouldn’t be a burden. You could never be, you hear me, Timothy? I’ve already started making some renovations to the apartment. There’s a wheelchair ramp leading up into the loft from the main entryway, a new lift chair in your favorite color in the living room with a perfect view of the big screen TV that takes up half of a wall, and a new walk in shower bench with grab bars on either side. If you flee this place with me now, I’ll even throw in an elevator to the second floor billiards room.”

 

Tim lifted both of his eyebrows and grinned with as much energy as he could muster, “Ooh, fancy.”

 

“I know. See?” Maggie said, leaning down to lay a kiss on the top of his hand then sitting back up again, with a full dimpled smile. “Now you have to move in with me.”

 

“Hmph,” Tim grunted, patting her hands with his free one and leaning over the arm of his chair as if they were sharing a secret. “I don’t think my boys would like that. You know they made a big to do about calling over my ex-wife and planning a soul crushing intervention so they could convince me to move here, then I did, and now they only ever come to visit me on the High Holy Days? Have you ever heard  such palaver in your life? I never thought I’d be one of those old farts who resented their kids for throwing them into an old folks’ home and throwing away the key, but then again I never thought I’d grow into an old fart at all. It’s BS, that’s what it is. I’d always dreamed I’d take after you and be young and stupid forever.”

 

Tim winked and Maggie snorted in amusement, shaking her head.

 

The constriction in her chest loosened a bit and she was reminded of times so long ago when Tim would put together his own slapstick routines and perform one or two of them for her after she got home from the precinct on hard days. She pictured a ten year old boy with straggly black locks and Kate’s French Foreign Legion cap covering his eyes as he meandered around like Charlie Chaplin in shoes too big for his feet and pretended to bump into things then fall over melodramatically before springing back up into a hand stand or a cartwheel. And then there was always Kate, leaning her hip against a sitting room chair or kitchen countertop and biting her lip to hide her laughter at their son’s antics before her green eyes would finally settle warmly on Maggie and then she’d smile that heart stopping smile of hers…

 

Maggie sniffed and blinked a couple times as her eyes watered. She drew in a deep breath as the tightness in her chest came back full force.

 

“Moms?”

 

Maggie turned her head away and swiped at moisture in the corners of her eyes. “Hm?”

 

“You were thinking about her again,” Tim stated, regarding her with a sad knowing look. “Do you miss her?”

 

Maggie swallowed and nodded, “Every day.”

 

“Me too,” Tim admitted. He paused, then continued more quietly. “I still miss them too you know, my mom and dad. I mean I’m glad they had the foresight to get me out of Europe and I’m so glad that you and mother adopted me, but I still think about them all of the time.”

 

“I know, Timmy, and it’s okay to miss them. They were your parents and what they did—their bravery—I know I wouldn’t have ever been able to do what they did.”

 

Tim nodded and reached with his free hand out to a small antique looking book of yellowed, multi-sized pages. On the front was something written Hebrew script Maggie had never been able to read. He held the book in his hand and gently thumbed the aging pages.

 

“I know I never really talked much about it. How my family ended up in the Ghetto in Warsaw, I mean. We lived in a town called Wyszków near Warsaw. My father was a school teacher at my primary school and my mother stayed home with my older sister baking and sewing things people brought her. I remember the siege. I remember hearing the bombs fall and being too afraid to sleep at night because the explosions shook the Earth. Then I remember arriving in the ghetto. I remember sharing an apartment with eleven other strangers I’d never met. I remember being so, so hungry all the time and I remember the bodies of school mates in the streets when they weren’t able to get enough food from outside to live and were just left to rot by the guards. I remember—getting sick. My older sister, Miriam, and I both got typhus and my mother and father bartered and sold a lot of the things they’d brought with them to get enough food to care for us. Then I remember waking up as weak as a kitten and Miriam not being there and my mother crying as she stroked my hair. I remember it was my mother’s birthday in late 1942 and feeling bad because I couldn’t get her a present so I made her this.”

 

Tim indicated the prayer book by shaking it a little.

 

“I worked on it for weeks. The paper came from posters and advertisements I’d filched from the sides of buildings, you can still see the faded ink on the backs of pages where some play or another was being advertised at the theater or when another edict was sent out for us to suffer under. I used the ink from school and wrote down the morning, afternoon, and evening prayers all from heart in the neatest Hebrew I’d ever written and when my mother’s birthday came and I presented it to her, I remember how happy it made her. I don’t think she expected good things anymore by that time.” He paused, taking in great heaving breaths as his words began to break, but he didn’t stop, he couldn’t stop talking. “She and my father had simply resolved themselves to surviving for as long as they could I think, but when she held this prayer book in her hands…she wasn’t crying sad tears. Instead they were happy and I’d felt so proud of my nine year old self for making her smile again. Two days later, my parents bundled me up and handed me over to a Polish social worker in the dead of night. Before they let me go, my mother gave this book back to me and told me to be a good boy and live a good life and that she loved me. Then the Polish woman took me away to stay at a priest’s house and another after that and well—you know what happened then. I never saw my mother or father again and often, I wonder what they would think about the life that I’ve led since. The mistakes I’ve made and such. I think about it more the closer to death that I get. Is that normal, do you think?”

 

“I think it’s perfectly normal,” Maggie reassured. She lifted a hand to the corner of her eyes to wipe away the tears that blinking couldn’t now stop.

 

She remembered when Kate had agreed to officially foster Tim—since Maggie wasn’t supposed to legally exist anymore—and how lost and defiant and angry he’d been when they brought him home that first day. It wasn’t until 1947 when Kate’s connections had discovered that his parents had been sent to Treblinka just two months after he’d been spirited away, that they’d asked Tim—as his anglicized name now was—for permission to adopt him and he’d agreed. It’d always amazed Maggie how easily he’d come to accept them and even love them in such a short time, but she’d always known he grappled with the demons of his past.

 

And now she knew that he struggled still. Her poor boy.

 

“I’m so sorry, son,” Maggie whispered, clasping the old man in a brief hug. “For everything you’ve been through, but I have to say that I’ve always been and still am so proud of how strong and kind and resilient you’ve always been. And I know your parents would probably be too. You’re here, a testament to their faith in you and to their love. They knew you’d make it out. They knew you’d survive and they knew you’d grow up to be a good man. If you believe nothing else, believe this—they believed in you—and don’t you ever think otherwise.”

 

Timothy sniffled and Maggie moved to grab a few tissues from a cardboard box on the TV stand. They both cried silently for a few minutes, Maggie wiping way Tim’s tears and the snot from his nose. After a half hour, they’d both settled. Tim leaned back in his chair, exhausted, and Maggie felt the beginnings of a headache beginning to throb above her eyes. They sat quietly for a bit longer, each trying to manage their own pains.

 

Then Tim shifted slightly in the chair and grimaced.

 

“What is it? Timothy?”

 

He pulled his hand free from hers and moved to scratch at the underside of his opposite forearm, where an intravenous needle and catheter had been taped down and shut with a plug cap.

 

“What happened there?”

 

“When I woke up this morning I had a slight fever and was shaking. The nurse checked me over and drew some blood. I was just being brought back to my room when you got here so I don’t know why yet.”

 

Maggie reached out to put her hand on Tim’s forehead and waited. He did feel warmer than he should be, but he wasn’t burning up by any means. How had she not noticed this until now? Still, better late than never. Tim was her only son after all. After Maggie’s aunt died, she never thought she’d have a family to belong to again, but Kate and Tim had become her family and now there was only two of them left.

 

“Did they give you something for the fever? They didn’t give you aspirin did they? It’s in your medical chart that you can’t mix it with your blood pressure medication. You need warmer clothes than this flimsy examination gown. Why didn’t that damn orderly cover you up better? Are you cold, sweetheart?”

 

Suddenly, Maggie was up and bustling around the room, talking to herself and collecting blankets from chairs and the bottom of the bed before wrapping Tim up until he was ridiculously bundled.

 

“I feel like the kid from _A Christmas Story_. The little brother you know?” Tim commented, trying genially to move his arms out of the cocoon of knitted afghans, quilts, and at least one duvet his mother had wrapped around him and failing.

 

Maggie, for her part, didn’t seem to hear him. She threw open cupboard doors until she finally found what she’d been looking for: a plastic bottle of sickly pink Pedialyte. She poured a cup full and added a plastic straw before moving to sit beside Tim again.

 

“Ugh,” Tim grimaced, eyeing the cup ruefully. “I thought I threw out that damn sugar water.”

 

“Hush, just drink.”

 

Tim looked at her like she’d grown a second head and Maggie’s expression immediately settled into her detective face—which had also doubled as her immovable Mom face at one time—and Tim relented with a sigh. She brought the straw up to his dry lips. Tim took a short sip, then a longer one when Maggie glared at him meaningfully. He drank half of the contents before he motioned for it to be taken away. Maggie set it on a side table and sat back down.

 

“I’m going to buzz for the nurse,” Maggie said, pacing once from the chair towards the foot of the hospital bed a few feet away. “I can’t believe they let you come back here without doing anything else to care for you. No blankets, no fluids, nothing.”

 

She was wringing her hands and having a hard time standing still. It wasn’t like her and that worried Tim.

 

“Moms—”

 

Maggie raised a finger to her lips to quiet him and started throwing open cupboard doors and drawers again. Then she returned to Tim’s side with an electric thermometer.

 

“Moms—“

 

Tim was stopped from continuing when the thermometer tip was shoved into his already open mouth.

 

“Don’t move and don’t talk until that thing beeps,” Maggie ordered, pacing again.

 

Tim just sat there, his indignant expression peeking out from beneath the pink crochet blanket Maggie had wrapped around his head and shoulders. Maggie—distractedly walked back and forth a few steps—muttering to herself about common senior health problems, infections he might have that they should be checking for, and the risk of anything else the in house nurse may’ve missed during her examination. Finally, the thermometer beeped, and Maggie stopped to collect it.

 

“An even 100 degrees. You have a low grade fever then. Did the nurse say when she’d have your results ready by?”

 

“Moms!” Tim interrupted her shrilly before she could stress them both out more. Then in a calmer voice he continued, “Please, sit down and relax. It’ll make me feel better.”

 

“I don’t think I can until I know what’s going on with you,” Maggie looked at her watch, then bit her lip anxiously and pulled her phone from the back pocket of her jeans. “I’m going to cancel my plans for tonight and stay here until we know what’s going on with you.”

 

“Like hell you will!” Tim said.

 

He’d shimmied out of his cocoon of blankets enough when Maggie wasn’t looking to be able to reach out and snatch the device right out of her hands before she could even begin to type out a message.

 

“You barely have a social life as it is and it’ll be a cold day in Hell before I’ll let you cancel one of the few times you’ve allowed to enjoy yourself on my account.”

 

Maggie held out her hand and gave him a stern look, “Timothy, give me my phone back.”

 

The old man’s grey eyes were defiant as he shook his head like a petulant child, “No.”

 

Maggie’s tone was a warning. “Timothy, I don’t play games, remember?”

 

The spark of resistance in Tim’s eyes died and he looked down sheepishly looking for a moment every bit the boy he’d been whenever he’d do something he wasn’t supposed to and Maggie was left to discipline him because Kate couldn’t bear to do it.

 

“I do remember, but I’m too old now to be sent to my room or scolded.”

 

Maggie dropped her arm, huffed, and slunk back down into the chair she’d started out in.

 

“There are you happy now?”

 

“Very. So tell me about this girl you’re going out with?”

 

“I never said I—”

 

“Is she pretty? I bet she’s pretty,” Tim commented, his eyes lighting up with excitement. “I can’t believe you were going out on a date and you weren’t even going to tell me.”

 

Now it was Maggie’s turn to be petulant, “Hey, I might’ve!”

 

Tim didn’t say anything right away, just fixed her with a perfect imitation of her no-bullshit-detective look. No wonder he’s made Superintendent before he’d retired. She’d taught him well, too well.

 

“Fine, I wasn’t going to tell you,” Maggie admitted quietly. “Are you happy now?”

 

 “No. Why wouldn’t you have told me?”

 

Maggie sighed, wrapping her arms around herself defensively. “It’s just—”

 

She faltered. Was she really discussing her dating life or lack thereof with her son?

 

“Oh, come on, Moms!” Tim argued. “I’m a grown man and you lived with me during my teenage years. Between playboy and the talks we had to keep having, we don’t have any boundaries left between us.”

 

“Oh, god, Timothy, please don’t remind me,” Maggie shook her head, pinched the bridge of her nose and shuddered.

 

The part of being a parent Maggie had struggled with—aside from always being the bad cop—was being able to explain puberty to her new son. Maggie knew what it was to wake up one day and feel different, but aside from that feeling, Maggie’s own experience of adolescence bore no resemblance to Tim’s. If he’d been a girl she could’ve shown her how to fasten a belted sanitary napkin and soothe cramps with a hot water bottle and a hot toddy, but Maggie was at a loss for what to tell a son. So she’d gone back to reviewing her medical books so she could give him an exact biological interpretation of puberty—which had scarred both of them for life. Kate had taken over then and she’d seemed to handle it better than Maggie, but for whatever reason Tim had never felt comfortable talking to Kate about private things.

 

Maggie was always his go to Mom and—though she secretly relished that distinction above her lover—she’d seen, heard, and found things that were burned into her memory.

 

She shook her head ruefully, but met Timothy’s impatient gaze head on. “I just didn’t want to tell you because I had thought…that the…’romantic’ part of my life would end when Kate died. She was my wife in everything by law and she was your mother as well as I am. I just thought it would be a bit much for both of us…”

 

“—And you were scared shitless,” Tim finished for her bluntly. “That’s okay. ‘I’ve got your back, Moms,’ as the kids say now.”

 

“Timothy!” Maggie shouted, causing the old man to cringe at the level of her voice. “Language!”

 

“Really, Moms?”

 

Some things never did change no matter how much time passed her by.

 

OOOOOOOO

 

It’s a temperate night—not scorching hot and not quite cool—for which Alex is grateful as she paces back and forth on the sidewalk in front of her apartment building. Why wasn’t Alex waiting in the lobby or why hadn’t she asked Maggie to pick her up at her door like a normal person? Those questions were warring with the twisting nerves in Alex’s gut for her attention.  She looked down at the watch on her wrist for the fifth time in ten minutes.

 

7:02 pm

 

What if she didn’t give good enough directions? What if Maggie didn’t show up at all? What if Maggie had just been playing with her? What if Maggie wasn’t who Alex thought she was at all?

 

“Deep breaths. You need oxygen to live,” Alex reminded herself out loud as she sucked in air until her lungs felt like they would burst open then let it out again.

 

The panic in her chest receded somewhat, but it was still there and wasn’t likely to ease anytime soon. Why was she like this? Alex had never agonized over a date like this before? Hell, she’d even cancelled dates with guys in college for lesser offences than being two minutes late—mostly because she’d agreed to go out with them so they’d stop bugging her and leave her alone and cancelling on them via text had seemed like the lesser of two evils. Now though, Alex couldn’t help feeling some latent sympathy for those dickheads because she knew if Maggie didn’t show up tonight she’d feel foolish and so, so humiliated just because she’d finally listened to her heart instead of her head.

 

Dusk was beginning to settle on National City. In the summer, night didn’t usually come full on until closer to 10pm, but the sky had been filled with ominously looking storm clouds all day and now they were blocking the sunlight, causing shadows to fall over the neighborhood where Alex was. What if Maggie couldn’t make it and hadn’t been able to let Alex know? Had she forgotten? Of maybe she’d been so engrossed in her work at the station that she’d lost track of time? What if she got stuck in traffic or what if she was hurt? Should she call Maggie? Was that too forward? Would it be considered clingy or pathetic?

 

Alex inhaled another chest full of air and tried to relax. Failing, she looked down at her watch again.

 

7:09 pm

 

Oh, god, what if Maggie really, really wasn’t coming? What if flirting with pretty women was just all a game to her? What if all she cared about was how many phone numbers she got? No, no, that’s—that wasn’t Maggie! They’d spent the time in between the meeting at _Noonan’s_ and this “date” texting back and forth and bantering and just having fun getting to know each other. That couldn’t have all be a lie? It couldn’t have all be for nothing, could it? For a hot second, Alex was tempted to just go back inside, retrieve the Jack Daniels bottle from beside the fridge, and drink until she forgot about this entire mess, but Alex didn’t.

 

Instead, she stayed where she was and took another deep breath before looking back down at her watch on the inside of her wrist.

 

7:13 pm

 

Alex looked up at the sky, not caring that her sister could probably hear her. “I should’ve just gotten pizza with you, Kara. This…this was just so stupid.”

 

“Is that going to be your final answer?”

 

The familiar voice came from behind her in the direction of the street. Alex turned around. Maggie was standing about four feet behind her, hands shoved into her jean pockets and shoulders raised nervously.

 

“Because if it is, we should probably just go our separate ways.”

 

Alex ran her hands over her face and tried to keep the emotion—everything she’d been feeling from fear, anger, and anxiety to self-loathing—from bubbling up in her throat and coloring her words.

 

“No, I don’t—I don’t think that. I was just freaking out because you weren’t here yet and then I started to imagine scenarios for why you weren’t here and I—I’m sorry,” Alex rambled.

 

Maggie walked up until they were face to face and gently took hold of Alex’s stiff shoulders. Soft brown eyes held frightened brown in a warm gaze.

 

“Hey, hey, Alex—it’s okay. Everyone has freak outs every now and again. I’m not going to hold that against you. I’m also not going to hold it against you if you decide that this is too much for you right now. If you don’t want to go out tonight, we don’t have to. I just want you to be happy.”

 

Alex swallowed and stared into Maggie’s dark eyes. They were different than hers, Alex noted distractedly. They were brown, true, but they were a lighter brown up close than they usually looked. Almost, like an ochre color. The darkness came from a series of black lines around the rim extending inward towards the iris in the center. It was perfect like a classical work of art. And below that was a cute nose and soft, soft lips…

 

“Danvers? You still with me?”

 

Alex nodded and blushed.

 

“Good, because we should probably decide what to do.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Do you still want to go out tonight?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, of course!” Alex said, the words leaving her mouth as soon as she thought them. “I—uh—yeah, I really do.”

 

Maggie chuckled and nodded, starting a slow backwards walk towards her Triumph T100, “In that case, this way, milady. Your chariot awaits.”

 

When they got closer to the Triumph, Alex looked at the bike with a perplexed expression. She remembered Maggie saying that she had a Triumph T100 and Alex had assumed it would be a T100 Bonneville, but it wasn’t.  Instead, this model was sleeker, the handlebars were shorter, the fuel tank was painted a Mike & Ike red, and the long black leather seat reached all the way back to the tail light.

 

“What?” Maggie asked, pausing mid-reach in handing over the extra helmet.

 

Alex took it without looking at it. “This…this is a vintage bike isn’t it?”

 

“Yeah, Triumph T100R 1972. Why?”

 

“It’s beautiful. My dad used to have a 1971 Boattail Sportster XLCH he would pull out of storage to take my mom out on dates with.”

 

“Sounds like your dad has good taste. Watch it though, Danvers.” Maggie said, fastening her Biltwell helmet with a side glance at Alex, “No one, flirts with my baby but me.”

 

Alex snorted and rolled her eyes, but said nothing, merely tightening the catch on her helmet until it was comfortable. Then Maggie mounted the bike and Alex got on behind her. Before Alex knew it, they were merging into city traffic and accelerating to get onto the freeway.

 

OOOOOOOO

 

By the time they’d pulled off of the freeway and into the outskirts of the city, Alex was beginning to regret not making Maggie tell her where they were going before they left. They drive through near suburban streets until they’re on a road bending around the coastline. By the time they pulled into a middlingly full parking lot next to what looked like a creepy common warehouse, Alex was itching to get her feet on solid ground—not that having her arms wrapped around Maggie’s waist was a hardship by any means—but because she was more sure of her ability to defend herself if she was stationary.

 

“Here we are!” Maggie exclaimed excitedly, as she removed her helmet and set it down on the seat.

 

“Where’s here?” Alex asked, a healthy amount of suspicion in her voice.

 

“Come on it and you’ll see,” Maggie said, slowly walking backwards towards the five panel double doors with what looked like an old fashioned Edison bulb in a rusted metal hood illuminating the few feet around it in faint yellow light.

 

“No, Maggie, I’ve been patient, but I’m not good with surprises, especially surprises from strangers,” The last words left Alex’s mouth reluctantly. Maggie wasn’t a stranger to Alex—not really—but the whole location was confusing and surprises were stressful. Alex just wanted to know so she could know if she could be happy or if she’d have to kick someone’s ass. Either way, she was done waiting.

 

Maggie sighed defeatedly and walked towards Alex. She shoved her hands into her pockets as they regarded one another, then raised a hand to point above them.  

 

“Look up,” Maggie suggested, quietly.

 

Alex looked up. She saw a dazzling array of stars—given that there was very little light pollution on this side of the city—and a faintly glowing billboard whose paint was peeling so badly that half of the letters in _Large Marge’s Drive-in Restaurant_ were silver instead of orange. Alex looked back down at Maggie who was smirking proudly.

 

“What is all this?” Alex asked, surprised.

 

“Remember yesterday evening when you told me about that drive-in you used to go to with your parents in Midvale and how you wished there was one near National City?”

 

Alex nodded.

 

“Well, I couldn’t find an actual drive-in, but this is a restaurant whose entire gimmick is to simulate one so I thought we’d watch B horror movies and guzzle milkshakes. That’s, if you still want to do it? I can drive you back if not.”

 

“Are you kidding me?!” Alex asked in disbelief. She was still mostly awed that this place had existed without her knowledge and she still wasn’t sure how Maggie knew about this place, but she wasn’t about to retreat now. “I’ll race you.”

 

Alex suddenly burst past Maggie towards the double doors. Maggie gained on her and then stopped to pull open one of the double doors for Alex, practically purring, “Milady,” in a way that both made Alex blush and giggle at once. The diner staff inside were dressed in retro outfits, girls in poodle skirts and men in all white with bowties and soda jerk hats.  A hostess took them back into the main restaurant area which was a huge open expanse in the warehouse where a bunch of booths made up to look like cars faced a floor to ceiling screen. And the ceiling—the ceiling took full advantage of the lack of light pollution—the entire thing made up with glass panes that showcased the stars overhead.

 

They were directed to a book sandwiched in between two halves of a cobalt blue Studebaker. The hostess left them and Alex gazed around, taking in their surroundings.

 

“This is…” Alex started.

 

“Amazing?” Maggie supplied. “Awe inspiring? Impressive?”

 

Alex turned to Maggie who was sitting beside her in the booth and raised her eyebrows in amusement, “Eh, it’s okay.”

 

The menus were already on the table, stuffed between the side wall of the booth and two glass bottles of ketchup and yellow mustard. Maggie grabbed them both and handed one over to Alex. In front of them, a trailer for _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_ was playing on the big screen, filling the restaurant with melodramatic music and the fearful screeching of meticulously styled blonde actresses.

 

“Hot liver and onion sandwiches at a Drive-in?” Alex recoiled, turning the page of the menu. “No thanks.”

 

“That’s kind of a risky offering for Friday night date fare,” Maggie agreed. “Lobster fritters and shrimp salad isn’t much better or Spaghetti marinara and coffee. Of my personal favorite a bowl of pineapple and cottage cheese.”

 

“Also, steak fingers,” Alex observed with sarcasm. “Who knew steak had fingers? Did you know that? I didn’t know that.”

 

They both snickered like unruly children, but sobered as their waitress came over to their table to greet them.

 

“Hi, my name is Stacey, I’ll be your server. What can I get started for you two for drinks?”

 

“Cream soda please.”

 

“Just water for me.”

 

Stacey jotted down their orders and excused herself. Maggie glanced sideways at Alex and smirked.

 

“Cream soda? Really, Danvers?”

 

“It was a childhood favorite of mine. My dad and I always used to get them whenever my mom sent us downtown to get something she’d forgot from one of the stores. It was always our special thing.”

 

“Sounds like you and your father are close.”

 

“Were close,” Alex amended with a sad smile. “He died with I was fifteen.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Maggie said, her look growing serious. “That must’ve been hard to go through.”

 

Alex shrugged and looked down at her menu and changing the subject.

 

“What about you?” Alex asked with newfound interest. “Are you close to your parents?”

 

Maggie hesitated. Her first instinct was to say: _No, they’ve been dead for eighty something years so it doesn’t really matter anymore_ , but Maggie caught herself and blurted out the familiar answer that she often gave: the half-truth.

 

“Uh, no, not really.” Maggie said, shifting in her seat uneasily. “They died years ago. We never were close though when I was growing up anyway.”

 

They descended into silence as they both gave their attention back to their menus.

 

“I think I’ll get a lettuce and tomato sandwich. It’s one of the only things on the menu without meat and I’m not really feeling grilled cheese right now,” Maggie announced.

 

“You don’t eat meat?”

 

“Not usually. On occasion, but I try to eat as healthy as possible whenever I can.”

 

Alex shook her head in amusement, “Food snob.”

 

“Hey! I am not a food snob. What pray tell are you getting so I can criticize your dinner choices?”

 

“I’m thinking the twin burger platter.”

 

Maggie raised her eyebrows, “Wow.”

 

“You know what, when it comes to gourmet burgers, go big or go home.”

 

“I’ll make sure they inscribe that on your tombstone.” 

 

Alex chuckled and blurted out, “I wouldn’t worry about it. I’ll just have Kara—”

 

Alex stopped speaking suddenly as her brain caught up with her mouth and she realized the massive mistake she’d almost made.

 

_—have Kara burn it in with her heat vision. It’d be cheaper and probably easier…_

 

Had she really been so unguarded that she’d nearly given out Kara’s secret—the secret she’d painstakingly built her entire adult life around—to a civilian? It was too easy to talk to Maggie. It was too easy to say things. She needed to get back to her safe, boring life in the city. She needed to make an excuse and get out of here. Kara would run a fly-by if she asked her to or she could call a cab—

 

A soft touch of a hand on her arm brought Alex out of her own thoughts, “Alex? Hey, you good? You seemed like you went somewhere else for a bit.”

 

 Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Alex waved off Maggie’s concern and the warmth it brought to replace the panic in her chest. “I just lost my train of thought is all.”

 

“Ah,” Maggie nodded, patting Alex’s arm sympathetically. “No worries, Danvers. I’ve had many a train of thought leave the station without me.”

 

Stacey came back with their drinks before Alex could even attempt to make a half-hearted escape and she realized—with more relief than anxiety—that she was stuck. They both made their dinner orders then they were left alone again. For several minutes they were quiet, both watching the pilots in _The Thing From Another World_ talk amongst themselves.

 

“So…”

 

Alex echoed. “So?”

 

“So, you want to talk about it?” Maggie asked.

 

Alex lowered her eyebrows in confusion. “What do you mean?”

 

Maggie shrugged and leaned her arms on the table. “You looked for a second like you were going to bolt out of your seat.”

 

Alex flinched unconsciously, but Maggie’s expression wasn’t judgmental or expectant like she was used to. It was sympathetic and quickly it disappeared as Maggie shifted her attention to her water, stirring the ice cubes around self-consciously with a paper straw. There was an awkwardness between them then that felt weird resting between the two of them. The natural connection they shared was still there, it was just muted all of a sudden, and that made Alex feel guilty. She’d never been good on dates and to be honest, she’d never cared with one of her dates with some male acquaintance she’d met would go badly. It would just be another failure in the long string of failures that had always made up her love life. Those failures had never bothered her before. She usually just let them pass her by, then she would move forward, but being with Maggie was different.

 

Maggie mattered. What she thought and what she felt mattered to Alex, especially when what Maggie thought and felt was brought about _by_ Alex.

 

“I’m sorry,” Maggie said, with more humor than she felt.

 

Alex straightened. _Why was Maggie apologizing? None of this awkwardness between them was her fault._

 

 “I’ve never been good at saying the right things at the right moments,” Maggie confessed with a smile that was so different from the confident one Alex was used to. “Especially not on dates. It’s like my foot is constantly in my mouth.”

 

Alex shook her head defiantly, “No, no you’re amazing. I just…I sort of freaked out for a minute because I…my job requires me to keep a lot of secrets for the sake of…National Security and I almost told you one of them without even thinking about it. I’m not usual so open with people and it’s so easy for me to be…open with you, so…I was just trying to mentally figure out how to deal with that. Usually—I’m not proud to say—I can lie my way out of admitting something about the secrets I have to protect, but for whatever reason, I just can’t lie to you and so I panicked. I’m the one who’s sorry, Maggie.”

 

“I—I—.” Maggie suddenly found herself shaking her head and wanting to confide in Alex that she wasn’t alone in feeling the way she did about their situation.

 

Maggie wanted to tell Alex that she understood everything Alex was saying. Maggie wanted to tell her that she too had been reduced to living a life that was in part closed off from the world. A life filled with half-truths because, for whatever reason, you couldn’t live your life for yourself anymore and ended up living it for the secrets you keep instead. That year after year of that kind of existence took its toll on a person. It was easier to pull away from family members, friends, potential lovers and sequester yourself in work or training or even alcohol. For all Maggie’s knowledge of the world and the humanity who ran it—she knew—that living their lives the way she and Alex did wasn’t a way people were meant to live their lives because it wasn’t really living at all. It was surviving and after 5,000 plus years of human civilization, didn’t people finally deserve to live not just survive?

 

Maggie didn’t know about herself. It was probably too late for her, but not for Alex.

 

Alex deserved to be able to live her life fully, without being constrained by her occupation or those who Maggie was sure loved her—like the exuberant blonde puppy sister—but didn’t understand that their lack of understanding was letting Alex put her life on hold for theirs. After their second/third meeting at _Noonon’s_ with Bette and Kara, Maggie hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that she’d seen Kara’s face somewhere before. She’d been walking by a news stand on her way to visit Timothy that afternoon when she’d seen Supergirl soaring across the cover of Catco Magazine that everything had clicked into place for her. Alex—the passionate big sister—with a job she couldn’t talk about and a sister she was obviously close to who had a secret identity that needed protecting at all times. Living like that—it couldn’t feel good and Maggie wasn’t to ease Alex’s burden by at least a tiny bit if she could.

 

“I’m guessing what you do for a living is super-secret and—,” Maggie halted looking around them to the other cars to see if anyone else was paying attention to them. When she was satisfied no one was, she continued in a soft voice, “—having a sister who’s Supergirl probably doesn’t make it any easier, does it?”

 

Alex’s eyes went wide, her expression went from slightly guilty to guarded, and she slid to the edge of the booth seat, regarding Maggie now as a potential threat.

 

“How do you know that?” Alex said, voice low and defensive.

 

Maggie shrugged, “I’m a detective, Danvers. I detect and I’ve been doing this a long time. After seeing you and your sister in _Noonan’s_ the other day, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I knew her from somewhere. Then I saw the cover photo for today’s issue of Catco Magazine at a news stand and I put two and two together.”

 

Alex regarded the woman across from her in strained silence for a minute or two, then let her shoulders drop and exhaled loudly, “I told her those glasses weren’t going to be enough to fool everyone.”

 

“Some people’s kids, Danvers, what can you do?” Maggie said, shrugging her shoulders again and smiling warmly to try to dispel the tension.

 

“Not enough,” Alex groaned, leaning her elbows on the table and covering her face with her hands. When those hands finally fell away, Alex was looking at Maggie seriously, dark eyes pleading. “You can’t tell anyone and not just in a pinky swear kind of way, you seriously can’t tell _anyone_. No one you got that? My sister’s life in on the line.”

 

Maggie instinctively reached out to Alex, but the other woman flinched slightly and Maggie pulled back her hand.

 

“Believe me, Danvers, I understand the importance of keeping confidential information confidential.

 

“I’m sorry, I’ve just always been responsible for Kara—not that I’m complaining, she’s my only sister and I love her to death—but it makes it hard to get close to anyone when any one of the people trying to get close to me could be doing it to get at Kara.”

 

Maggie felt a twitch of annoyance run through her body at that remark, but it was more because Kara was an adult and actually bulletproof and Alex was still taking it upon herself to protect her than it was about being offhandedly accused of only wanted to get to know Alex because of Kara. The bubbly blonde was friendly, but Maggie wasn’t interested in her. She was interested in Alex for Alex and the woman deserved to have that in her life—even if it wasn’t from Maggie.

 

Alex leaned back, relaxing again into the leather seat, “Do you have any siblings, Maggie? I never asked before.”

 

Maggie raised her eyebrows at the sudden changed in demeanor and topic from Alex, but she was willing to move on if only so Alex could let herself be happy for once.

 

“Yes, a brother.” Maggie managed. “Like my parents though, we’re not close.”

 

Alex just nodded and took a sip of her soda, closing her eyes briefly in bliss at the taste that always reminded her of carefree summer days and afternoons spent hanging out with her father like they were the only two people in the world.

 

“Happiness looks good on you, Danvers.” Maggie commented, in a voice that was surprisingly hoarse. “You should make a habit of wearing it more often.”

 

Alex opened her eyes, but Maggie was taking a drink of her water, not looking at her. Then the detective looked around them furtively and when she spoke her voice was the same silky tone it always was.

 

“Ugh! When are they going to bring our food, I’m so hungry that I’m starting to get hangry,” Maggie whined, her bottom lip pushed out petulantly until she schooled her expression into grumpiness and fell back into the seat, crossing her arms over her chest.

 

Alex chuckled at the uncharacteristic display of childishness and leaned her head back against the booth, regarding Maggie softly.

 

“Who’d of thought the stoic, badass detective could lose her cool over a lettuce and tomato sandwich?”

 

Maggie turned towards Alex, eyes narrowed playfully. Were they closer than they’d been somehow? Maggie hadn’t seen Alex moved from the front of the booth to resume the cozy position they’d shared before, but it didn’t seem to matter now.

 

“It’s not the lettuce and tomato sandwich, Danvers. It’s what it represents: food that needs to be in my belly now.”

 

Alex snorted in amusement, “You’re just as bad as Kara. I mean I know she had to eat more than most of us to get the amount of calories she needs per day, but still. That girl loves her food.”

 

“That’s the second thing we have in common then.”

 

“What’s the first?”

 

Maggie chuckled, but answered her honestly. “You.”

 

Alex felt her cheeks heat up at the word, but she didn’t look away from Maggie’s eyes. After a few seconds of just staring, Alex’s eyes did drop, but they dropped from Maggie’s gaze to her teasing smirk, to her lips…

 

“Here’s your food, ladies,” Stacey said, suddenly appearing out of nowhere and startling Alex out of her skin. “Now be careful, the plates are still a bit hot. Can I get you gals anything else?”

 

“Nope, we’re good for right now. Thank you,” Maggie assured her with a brilliant smile.

Alex hadn’t felt particularly hungry since they’d arrived, but now with a steaming double-pattied burger almost larger than her head in front of her and a platter full of fries, her stomach growled loudly.

 

“Looks like I’m not the only one that was getting hangry,” Maggie teased, unrolling her napkin and silverware.

 

They ate in silence, both energized by the warm comfort food filling their stomachs. The trailer for _The Creature from the Black Lagoon_ was now playing, though Alex couldn’t tell if _The Thing From Another World_ was over, but if it was they’d been waiting and talking for way longer than it felt like they had. To her surprise—and a little shame—Alex actually managed to eat all but ¼ of her massive burger. Maggie’s sandwich was half the size, but she’d only eaten half of it before starting to work on her crinkle fries. Alex didn’t even want to think about the fries.

 

“Whoa, I’m definitely not going to be eating again anytime soon,” Alex admitted, rubbing her belly and watching as Maggie popped a couple of ketchup covered fries into her mouth.

 

Wait, was it ketchup? It was more orange than ketchup usually was—Alex noted—and the consistency was different.

 

“What’s on your fries?” Alex asked, eying the blob of orange goop on Maggie’s platter warily.

 

Maggie chewed and swallowed, then wiped her hands on the napkin in her lap before reaching nonchalantly for another fry, “Hot sauce.”

 

Alex shook her head, “with fries?? Gross.”

 

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, Danvers,” Maggie replied, wiping her hands on the napkin again and then pushing the platter away. “Definitely full now though.”

 

“Please tell me you aren’t one of those people who put hot sauce on everything?”

 

Maggie thought for a moment, then turned to Alex, smirking. “Define everything.”

 

“Ugh, Gross,” Alex shuddered.

 

OOOOOOOO

 

They’d stayed until long after their plates had been cleared away and the last movie had started. When they split the bill between them, they were two of four people left in the place and the other two were Drive-in employees. The drive back into the city was calm and comfortable. Alex hugged Maggie’s waist as tightly as possible, not because she’d needed to or not because she was afraid, but because she _could_. She was almost disappointed when they came to a stop outside of her apartment building to have to give up the warmth of Maggie’s body beneath her, the woman’s oddly alluring scent of mint and coffee, and the divine places between Maggie’s shoulder blades that Alex had made her pillow.

 

“Danvers? You sleeping back there?” Maggie called, when the engine on her bike had been turned off and the kickstand had been put down, but the woman clinging to her with the ferocity of a kola didn’t let her go.

When there was no immediate answer, Maggie started to roll her shoulders. Alex made a disgruntled sound, but didn’t relinquish her hold.

 

“I could seriously sleep like this,” Alex murmured. “You’re so comfortable and warm.”

 

“Now I know you were asleep, Danvers, cause you’re just rambling right now.”

 

“No!” Alex defended, indignantly. It seemed to work until Maggie heard her yawn and started to chuckle. “Shut up, you.”

 

“I can’t promise anything, Danvers. You bring out the smartass in me.”

 

“Okay, well that’s enough of you,” Alex leaned away from Maggie’s back, getting ready to swing her leg over, but Maggie grasped her hands around her waist and stopped her.

 

Maggie hadn’t stopped to think about it. She’d just laid her head back on Alex’s shoulder to try to keep the woman there, but when Alex said something and she turned her head to answer and Alex was right there—so close they could feel the puffs of breath coming from one another’s mouths—she found herself leaning closer. Alex didn’t move. For the first time, what she’d been day dreaming about for almost twenty-four hours was within the realm of possibility and Alex was many things, but a coward was never one of them. She closed the distance between them slowly, waiting for Maggie to object or move away or tell her that this just wasn’t the way Maggie saw her, but it didn’t happen.

 

Instead, Alex took Maggie’s lips in a tentative kiss. When Maggie leaned her head back further and deepened it, Alex let out a deep moan. A hand found its way into Alex’s short locks and trim fingernails scratched pleasantly at the base of her scalp. Alex held on and kissed Maggie passionately back, holding onto Maggie’s hips and allowing her thumbs to massage the soft leather of the jacket there. After what felt like an eternity, Maggie surprised Alex and pulled away. They were both breathing heavy, staring into one another’s eyes and wondering the same thing:

 

_Where do we go from here?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this was a good read. Drop me a comment on the way out if you're so inclined.


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